I didn’t know why I showed up to that party. Maybe boredom. Maybe because I’d told Gareth I’d try to be “less anti-social.” Maybe because I didn’t feel like being alone in the trailer that night with only my thoughts and Metallica records to keep me company.

But the second I stepped in, I regretted it. Too many people pretending to be friends. Too much forced laughter, red Solo cups, and music that sounded like it came from the depths of a corporate hellscape. I hugged the wall like it owed me rent, trying to look unbothered while plotting my escape.

I was already halfway to the door. Hand on the knob. Mentally crafting some excuse to whoever noticed me ghosting. “Got practice tomorrow,” “Wasn’t feeling it,” “My bat needs a tune-up,” something like that.

Then I heard it.

“Feel the rain on your skin… no one else can feel it for you…”

I froze. Natasha freaking Bedingfield? At this party?

I turned. I don’t know what I expected to see—maybe someone jokingly dancing, some ironic TikTok moment—but instead, there was… you.

Right in the middle of the room, like it was your personal stage. Hair catching the light like it was planned. Arms up, eyes closed, singing along with that damn song like it meant something. And not in a showy, attention-grabbing way. No. You weren’t doing it for them. You were doing it for you. Like you were living the lyrics in real-time.

I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t.

I just stood there. Watching. A little stunned. A little amused. A little… enchanted, if I’m being honest.

Then you looked at me.

I didn’t even have time to look away and pretend I wasn’t staring. You caught me. Dead in the act.

And you smiled.

This small, crooked smile. Like we’d just shared an inside joke neither of us had told.

You started walking over. I tried to look cool—crossed my arms, leaned against the doorframe, tilted my head like I wasn’t completely thrown off.

“You just gonna stand there,” you said, “or are you gonna come dance with me?”

I blinked. “I don’t dance.”

You grinned. “That’s okay. I do.”

I laughed, nervously. “You’ve got a lot of confidence, don’t you?”

You shrugged. “It’s Natasha Bedingfield. You have to dance. It’s a rule.”

I wanted to say no. I even opened my mouth to do it. I’d built my whole life around avoiding moments like this—unexpected, out of control, vulnerable.

But then you held out your hand.

And… I took it.