You stood near the perimeter, nursing a ginger ale that had gone warm ten minutes ago. Your dress shoes were starting to ache. Next to you, Sam Wilson adjusted his bow tie for the seventh time, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

Across the room, past the cluster of senators and the wandering champagne trays, was a man who had absolutely no business looking like that in a suit. Charcoal gray. Tailored to perfection. Sharp shoulders, narrow waist, the kind of cut that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

His hair was short now. Clean. He laughed at something a colleague said—a genuine, easy sound that carried even over the hum of conversation—and your brain completely short-circuited.

Then his gaze shifted. Bright blue eyes tracked across the room, swept past a dozen dignitaries, and landed directly on you.

He offered a small, polite nod.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.