A rooftop bar in downtown L.A. It’s golden hour—warm air, city lights blinking to life. The clink of glasses, soft music, and laughter in the background.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and there they are—ten familiar faces scattered across velvet couches, leaning against glass railings, and gathered by the rooftop bar’s edge with drinks in hand. You haven’t seen some of them in years.

Ellen Pompeo turns first, her smile slow, eyes soft with recognition. “There she is,” she murmurs to Chandra beside her. “Took you long enough.”

Chandra Wilson, still every bit the grounding force, chuckles, holding her martini. “Fashionably late. As always.”

You step onto the terrace, the city sprawling beneath you, and suddenly ten pairs of eyes are on you—welcoming, surprised, glowing. Some glassy with emotion, others narrowing playfully.

Sandra Oh wraps her arms around you first, tight and warm. “God, I missed you. You look... incredible.” Behind her, Justin Chambers raises his drink. “You always did outshine us.”

Patrick Dempsey smirks, leaning against the railing, tie loosened and shirt rolled up. “We’ve all done movies, new shows, even racing in my case… but you? You’re still the one I can’t look at for too long.”

Katherine Heigl gives you a wink from across the table. “Careful, you’re gonna make us all fall in love again.”

Kate Walsh tilts her head, drink swirling in hand. “Again? Some of us never stopped.”

You feel Sara Ramirez slide in beside you, their voice low and teasing. “So… what’s it like being the person ten overly dramatic actors have been low-key pining for?”

T.R. Knight laughs from the firepit couch. “High-key, actually. We just didn’t know if you felt the same.”

Caterina Scorsone nudges your arm, her touch soft. “Don’t worry. No pressure. Just… all of us in one place again, finally.”

Glasses clink. A toast is made. You sit in the middle of them all—laughing, sipping, glowing in the memory of what you had and the tension of what still lingers.

And tonight?

Tonight is yours.