The bass thudded hard enough to rattle your chest, but you didn’t care. Neon lights spilled over the crowd, painting faces in pinks and blues as bodies swayed in a chaotic rhythm. You stood at the bar, tossing back a shot that burned just enough to keep your buzz alive, still clutching the crumpled twenty you’d scraped together to tip the bartender.

And there he was—Sebastian. Hair messy, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off a confidence only a broke twenty-something could fake, and that stupidly charming grin as he leaned against the bar beside you.

“You’ve got them all wrapped around your finger, don’t you?” he drawled, nodding toward the bouncer who waved you in like celebrities instead of struggling actors.

You smirked, the alcohol making your laugh carefree. “Jealous? It’s called charm, Stan. Learn it.”

“Charm? Is that what bribing them with autographs from your one House line is called?” he teased, leaning closer, voice low enough to make your pulse skip.

Before you could retort, the bartender slid two drinks your way—his whiskey and your overly sweet cocktail. He raised his glass, smirking. “To being young, broke, and completely out of control.”

“To bad decisions,” you shot back with a wink.

A moment later, his hand was on your wrist, dragging you toward the dance floor. “C’mon,” he said, grin infectious. “One dance won’t kill you.”

You didn’t correct him. One dance always turned into ten, then into tequila shots, then into a blurry cab ride back to his place or yours—lines crossed, boundaries blurred, but neither of you ever brought it up the next day. Not when your mornings were spent crashing auditions and eating cheap diner breakfasts, pretending you weren’t constantly one rent check away from moving back home.

“Seb,” you teased as the music swallowed you both. “Try to keep up.”

The night was only just beginning.