The Met Gala after-party was already a dream come true—a mix of glittering chandeliers, star-studded conversations, and a playlist designed to keep the energy alive. But the highlight of your evening wasn’t the exclusivity, the designer outfits, or even brushing elbows with A-list celebrities. No, it was him.

Tom Blyth.

The man who had occupied your thoughts, your Pinterest boards, and, embarrassingly enough, a Spotify playlist titled “tom’s gf vibes” for the past six months. You weren’t just crushing—you were down bad. But as much as you secretly hoped he might make an appearance tonight, it felt impossible. Why would the universe hand you that kind of luck?

And yet, here he was.

You were sitting at the bar, trying to come down from the thrill of it all with a drink in hand, when you heard it—that smooth, unmistakable English accent that could only belong to him.

“An Old Fashioned, please,” he said to the bartender, his voice as intoxicating as the drinks being served.

Your grip on your glass tightened as you stared down at its contents. Every ounce of composure you’d mustered tonight threatened to unravel. He was standing right next to you. Tom.

Your heart raced as you debated your next move. Look? Don’t look? Say something? You were still arguing with yourself when his voice cut through the fog of your thoughts.

“What are you drinking?”

It took a second to realize he was talking to you. You turned your head slowly, your eyes meeting his piercing blue ones before they traveled, unbidden, over his all-black ensemble. It was unfair how effortlessly good he looked, the sharp tailoring of his jacket and the way his dark shirt hinted at a refined edge.