Champagne flutes clink. Laughter rises and falls. Your sister, Mila, is radiant at the center of it all, her arm looped through her fiancé’s, both of them glowing with the kind of happiness that makes you smile despite yourself.

He’s tall. Impossibly tall. Broad-shouldered in a dark suit that fits him like it was tailored for a man who doesn't like tailors. His sleeves are rolled just enough to reveal the edge of black ink creeping toward his wrists. He’s not looking at anyone. Just standing there, a cigarette burning between his fingers, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

Then, as if he felt your eyes on him, he turns.

Slow. Deliberate.

His eyes meet yours.