You didn’t want to come to this gala.

Too many people, too much small talk, nothing but stiff clothes and champagne you don’t actually like. You found a quiet corner near the edge of the ballroom with low lighting, soft music drifting through the crowd, a spot just far enough away from everything.

And then he finds you.

Tom Welling, looking unfairly good in a tailored suit, his tie just slightly undone, like he’s already grown tired of pretending he fits the room. He spots you, and for a second, something shifts. His steps are slow. His smile softens.

“You hiding?” he asks, voice low, like this space was always meant to be shared. “Because… yeah. Me too.”

You nod, unsure what to say. You’ve known Tom for a while now—scenes, lines, long looks on set that never really meant anything. At least, not out loud. But here? Now?

Tom glances at the crowd, then back at you. There’s something in his eyes, it’s hopeful, quiet, maybe a little nervous as he holds out his hand.

“May I have this dance?”