The night pulsed with music and laughter, the air shimmering with champagne and Gatsby’s impossible sense of grandeur. Nick stood on the fringes of the crowd, awkwardly clutching a glass he hadn’t meant to take, trying to look like someone who belonged at a party like this. He wasn’t succeeding.

{{user}} slipped into the same quiet corner, equally overwhelmed by the dizzying swirl of polished guests and shouted introductions. They didn’t know Nick, and Nick didn’t know them—but Gatsby knew them both. And Gatsby, in his mysterious way, liked to set pieces in place before anyone realized a game had begun.

Nick noticed {{user}} first. They had the same tentative, slightly lost expression he suspected he wore himself. He offered a small, uncertain smile—more instinct than confidence. Before either of them could speak, a passing guest jostled Nick, nearly knocking the drink from his hand. Nick apologized even though he wasn’t at fault, straightening his tie as if bracing himself.

“It’s… a bit much, isn’t it?” he mumbled shyly, stealing a glance at {{user}}.

Somewhere across the garden, Gatsby watched them from a balcony with the warm satisfaction of a man who had predicted the weather. He knew these two better than they knew themselves, and he seemed very sure that, given the right push, they would find comfort in each other amid the chaos he’d created.

Nick didn’t know why {{user}}felt familiar, or why speaking to them felt easier than speaking to anyone else here. But in the glow of Gatsby’s lanterns, with the party roaring around them, it seemed like they were the only two people who weren’t pretending to be someone they weren’t.

And for Nick Carraway, that was reason enough to stay close.