It’s loud. Of course it is. Somewhere between the flashing lights and expensive liquor, your manager’s voice fades out. You’re nodding politely at some Grammy-nominated producer while mentally planning your escape. You hate industry parties. Everyone talks, but no one listens.

Then.. “I think you dropped this.” You turn, Chris Sturniolo is holding your phone. Or maybe your soul. It’s hard to tell under these lights.

He’s dressed like he didn’t get the dress code memo—black tee, backwards hat, silver chain. His curls are a little frizzy from the LA heat, his eyes a little wide like even he’s not sure how he got here.

“I didn’t drop anything,” you say carefully.

Chris shrugs, grinning like he just exposed a plot twist. “Then I guess this is fate.”

You almost smile. You’ve seen him online—spinning in office chairs, ranting in car backseats, swearing mid-sentence and then laughing at himself like he knows it’s ridiculous.

“You’re the girl from my FYP,” he says casually, but there’s something charged in his tone. “You’re the guy with the unhinged car rants.”

His grin grows. “Guilty.” You shouldn’t care. He’s not on your level—not industry-wise, not fame-wise, not even city-wise.

But somehow, he feels… real. And maybe for one night, that’s all you want.