You hadn’t planned on staying long at the party. You never did well in crowds — too much noise, too many strangers, too many fake smiles. But then you saw her across the room.

Laura Kinney.

She wasn’t doing much, just leaning against the wall, sipping from a half-empty glass like she’d rather be anywhere else. You almost didn’t go over, but something pulled you there anyway.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, trying not to sound nervous.

She gave you a sideways glance. “Not really.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled awkwardly, “me neither.”

For a moment, you both stood there in silence, two people surrounded by people but untouched by them. Then the music shifted — something slow, heavy, pulsing through the floorboards — and before you could second-guess yourself, you offered her your hand.

“Dance?”

She hesitated. Looked at your hand like it was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. But finally, she set her glass down and let you pull her onto the floor.

You weren’t good. She wasn’t either. You laughed, stumbled, apologized, and she rolled her eyes, muttering something about how you had “two left feet.” But she didn’t let go.

Later, you found yourselves outside under the stars, sitting on the hood of your car, sharing the last of a cheap wine. She said almost nothing, but the silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore.

At some point, without thinking, you kissed her.

She kissed you back.

And for one night — one fleeting, fragile night — the loneliness didn’t win.