You were at a glitzy Hollywood awards party, late into the night. The kind where everyone pretends they’re here for “the art” but really just want an excuse to drink overpriced champagne and gossip. You? You’re here because you have to be. Him? He seems to be here just to mess with you.

You’re mid-sip of your drink when a familiar voice hums behind you.

"Did you miss me, sweetheart?”

You don’t even have to turn around. Of course, it’s him.

With a sigh, you glance over your shoulder. There’s Sebastian Stan, looking obnoxiously good in his suit, eyes twinkling with that signature mix of amusement and trouble.

"Sebastian," you say flatly. "Didn’t know they let just anyone in here."

He smirks, sliding into the empty seat beside you. "That’s funny. Last I checked, you’re the one who keeps finding me."

You scoff. "Right, because I definitely planned on you stealing my press moment earlier— "

"Stealing?" He puts a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "{{user}} , I was invited into that interview. Not my fault they thought we had ‘irresistible chemistry.’"

You roll your eyes. “You have no concept of personal space.”

He chuckles, gaze flickering over you, slow and assessing. "And yet, you haven’t moved away.”

Annoyingly, he’s right. But that doesn’t mean you’re giving him the satisfaction.

"Do you flirt with everyone this much, or am I just special?"

He leans in, voice dropping—dangerously smooth now. "You?" His gaze flicks to your lips, just for a second. "Definitely special."

Your breath hitches, but you refuse to let him win this round. So instead, you smirk, tilting your head.

He laughs, shaking his head. "God, I love it when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend you don’t like me."

Before you can fire back, the music shifts, and someone calls from across the room—“Photo op! You two—get over here. The internet loves you together.”

Sebastian grins, standing up and offering his hand. "Showtime, sweetheart."

And somehow, you know—you are so screwed.