It’s a gala night. One of those events—grand chandeliers, people clinking champagne glasses with names that sound like old money, every note of the string quartet so sharp and pristine it could cut glass. And there you are—his girl—poised like you were born under stage lights, dressed in satin and silence, fingers brushing over your wine glass like a melody.

And then there’s him.

Late, of course.

Boots way too loud against marble, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, silver rings clinking when he adjusts the collar of his all-black shirt. Conversations pause. Heads turn. One of the old ladies gasps—he has an earring.

You hear it all from across the room. Don’t have to even look up at first. Just take a small sip and smirk.

He finally reaches you, dropping into the seat beside you with a lazy grin that says he knows he doesn’t belong here—and couldn’t care less.

“You’re late,” you murmur without turning.

“You’re breathtaking,” he replies, no hesitation.

The music swells, but his eyes never leave you. Not even when your orchestra friends talk about new gala events. Not even when someone whispers, “Wasn’t he playing at the bar?—“

He’s here. For you. And the room can deal with it.

Because no matter how many symphonies play tonight, the loudest thing in the room is the statement you two make just sitting side by side.