The cameras wouldn’t stop flashing. The carpet was an ocean of lights and opportunistic glances. You walked alone, head held high, wrapped in your designer gown that seemed to float with every step. Singer. Model. Guest of honor. And, supposedly, accompanied.

But he wasn’t there. Iggy.

You bit your lip, masking the irritation that simmered beneath your flawless skin. How could he be late tonight of all nights? You almost laughed to yourself, of course. Because it was so damn iconic for Iggy Pop to show up late to the Met Gala like it was just some afterparty at CBGB. But still… it hurt. A little.

And then you saw him. In the distance, his face made up with a glam rock touch that clashed against the vulnerable expression he wore. He was looking for you. Big eyes, shining with guilt.

He almost looked like he was about to cry.

“Shit…” he whispered when he was finally a few steps away. “You have no idea how fucking awful I feel about this, baby.”