The moment you stepped out of the car, the night air of New York wrapped around you, humming with energy. Cameras flashed a few feet away at a different cluster of celebrities arriving, but not at you — and you liked it that way. No pressure. Just you, your sleek black halter dress hugging every curve, gold heels clicking against the pavement, and the confidence radiating from within. You looked hot, and you knew it.
Inside, the venue pulsed with bass — part nightclub, part lounge, velvet curtains against exposed brick walls, chandeliers sparkling overhead. The crowd was glamorous, full of faces that people would recognize instantly, but to you, they were just Hailey's friends.
You spotted her immediately.
"Finally!" Hailey squealed, wrapping her arms around you. She smelled like expensive perfume and champagne. "You look insane. Everyone, this is my best friend."
You smiled as the circle of women — models, actresses, influencers — turned their attention to you. They all nodded, smiled, some even pulled you into brief hugs. You weren't an A-lister, but you never needed to be. People gravitated toward you for your warmth, the way you could make a stranger feel like a friend.
After a few minutes of catching up, you slipped away to the bar. "A dirty martini, extra olives," you told the bartender with ease, resting an elbow on the glossy surface. You could feel eyes on you from different directions, but you didn't care — tonight, you wanted to soak it in, to enjoy yourself.
That's when you heard it.
"Hey."
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
Your breath caught, but you didn't flinch. You turned your head slightly as the bartender slid the martini toward you. "Thank you," you murmured, before finally facing him.
Nicholas Chavez.
Every inch of him was just as sharp as you remembered — the black polo fitted against his frame, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, black trousers cut perfectly. The subtle glint of a gold watch at his wrist. He looked maddeningly composed, and yet his eyes betrayed something softer the second they landed on you.
"Nick," you said simply, taking a careful sip of your drink.
"Can we... talk?" he asked, his tone low, hopeful.
You hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Sure."
He led you to a quieter corner of the venue, away from the music's thrum and the endless chatter. You slid into the velvet booth across from him, crossing your legs. Your dress shifted with the movement, the open back catching the dim light. He noticed. Of course he did.
"You look... amazing," he said finally, voice hushed like he didn't quite trust himself with the words.
You tilted your head, offering a polite smile. "Thanks. You don't look bad yourself." You let your eyes sweep over him deliberately — head to toe, then back to his watch. "We're matching, apparently."
That earned you the faintest smile from him, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
The conversation started with small talk — what you'd been up to, where you'd been traveling, projects he'd been working on. But inevitably, the past crept in.
Nick leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "I regret how things ended," he admitted. His voice was low, steady, but his eyes were searching yours. "I haven't... I haven't been able to move on."
You let out a dry laugh, more to deflect than anything. "Nick, it's been like three years."
His lips twitched, but not into a smile. "Two years and eight months," he corrected softly.
You froze. He said it so casually, so precise, like he'd kept count. And that's when you realized — he had.
"Seriously?" you asked, eyebrows lifting.
He just shrugged, but his eyes told you everything.
The weight of it lingered in the air until you broke it with a sip of your martini. "Well, I'm sure you've seen the tabloids. They had me linked with Drew Starkey for about five minutes."
"I did," he said, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.
"It was nothing," you clarified quickly. "We went out a couple times, but we decided to just be friends."
And that's when it happened — the tiniest smirk, ghosting at his lips. It was there and gone in seconds, but it was enough to make your heart skip.
From there, the conversation grew easier, looser, like slipping into an old rhythm you thought you'd forgotten. He made you laugh — really laugh — and when the DJ shifted into a more danceable beat, Nick stood and extended a hand.
You hesitated, then placed yours in his.
On the dance floor, the crowd blurred into the background. The music was loud, bodies moved all around you, but it was just him, close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne. His hand rested at your waist, fingers brushing against bare skin where your dress dipped low. Every touch sparked something — memory, longing, tension you'd buried.
One song turned into two, then three. Somewhere between the beats, you both slipped back to the bar, ordering another round of drinks.
"Martini again?" he teased.
"Of course," you said, smirking, brushing your straightened hair back over your shoulders.
He watched you like you were the only person in the room.
By the time midnight edged closer, you'd both found yourselves back at the booth, drinks half-finished, conversation spilling freely. You talked about regrets, about what you'd learned in the years apart, about the people you'd become.
And though you held yourself with confidence — poised, sharp — inside, there was a part of you that wanted to bolt. Because being near him, hearing his laugh, seeing that he still remembered the exact length of your separation — it was overwhelming.
At one point, you reached for your glass at the same time he did, and your fingers brushed. You pulled back instinctively, but he caught your hand before you could.
His thumb traced over your knuckles, slow, deliberate. "I'm not asking for answers tonight," he said, voice low enough to get lost in the music. "But I need you to know... it was always you."
Your chest tightened, words caught in your throat.
The night stretched on — laughter, dancing, lingering glances that said everything you couldn't.
And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself wonder... maybe the story between you and Nicholas Chavez wasn't finished after all.
