You met Hayden Christensen at a private gallery opening in Montreal — all soft gold lighting, whispered names, and too many people pretending they weren’t impressed by each other.

You were there working, sort of — a campaign post, a few well-timed shots, your followers hanging on your every curated moment. But he wasn’t part of the plan.

He was across the room in black — tailored, calm, magnetic. You noticed him before you even let yourself look at him too long. And then, there he was beside you, eyes on the same painting you’d been pretending to understand.

“You get it?” he asked, quietly amused.

You shrugged. “I was hoping someone would walk up and tell me.”

He smiled, slow. “Guess that’s me.”

Conversation slipped from sarcasm to sincerity — shared music, late-night thoughts, things that didn’t belong in a room full of people pretending not to notice you both slipping away from the crowd.

By the time the gallery was closing, neither of you made a move to leave.

He looked at you, voice low, gaze steady. “You always leave this kind of tension unresolved?”

You tilted your head, smiling just enough to make it dangerous. “Depends who I’m with.”

A charged pause.

His hand brushed yours — not accidental, not subtle. You didn’t pull away.

“Come upstairs,” he said, his voice velvet and heat. “There’s a rooftop. And no cameras.”

You didn’t ask what he meant by rooftop. You just followed, heartbeat loud in your ears, already knowing this night wouldn’t end in a polite goodbye.