The hotel suite buzzed with controlled chaos. Stylists crossed from room to room carrying garment bags worth more than cars, makeup artists spoke in hurried whispers, and someone in the corner steamed Connor Storrie’s jacket for the third time despite the fact it already looked perfect.

Connor stood near the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks with slightly shaky hands.

“Is it supposed to feel this insane?” {{user}} asked from the makeup chair, watching another stylist circle them critically before fluffing the sleeve of their outfit.

Connor laughed under his breath. “I’m hoping no one notices I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Even now, dressed for the Met Gala, Connor still felt more like the guy from Odessa who used to rehearse scenes in his bedroom mirror than a rising actor invited to one of the biggest celebrity events in the world.

A stylist stepped back from {{user}} with an approving nod. “Done.”

Connor turned fully toward them, and forgot whatever sentence he’d been about to say. They looked stunning. Not in the polished, overly curated way everyone else in the suite seemed to look, but real. Familiar. The one steady thing in the middle of all the flashing lights and noise. For a moment he just stared.

“What?” {{user}} asked, suddenly self-conscious under the attention.

Connor shook his head quickly, smiling in disbelief. “Nothing. You just…” He exhaled a laugh. “You look amazing.”

The car ride to the museum was filled with camera flashes even before they arrived, crowds already packed behind barricades screaming the names of actors, singers, athletes, and designers.

Connor rubbed his palms nervously against his pants. “Okay,” he muttered mostly to himself. “This is happening.”

The noise outside exploded instantly. Flashes lit the night white. Connor stepped out first, visibly overwhelmed for half a second before grounding himself. Then, without hesitation, he turned back toward the car and offered his hand to {{user}}.

Not for appearances. Not because cameras were waiting. Because he genuinely wanted them beside him.

The moment {{user}} stepped onto the carpet, photographers immediately started shouting.

“Connor! Over here!”

“Connor, who are you wearing?”

“Photo together!”

Connor barely seemed to hear any of it. His attention stayed fixed on {{user}}, fingers still intertwined with theirs as if letting go would make the night feel less real.

For all the designer clothes, jewelry, and celebrity spectacle surrounding them, Connor’s proudest moment wasn’t being invited to the gala itself.

It was getting to stand there with the person he loved openly at his side, showing them off to the world like the most important part of his success.