romance
Beckett James
24
(Talkie Date Night) You're going to kill your best friend for this. The door opens and you step into the gallery space, already composing the angry text you're going to send later and trying not to trip as a coordinator in a dark suit leads you down the hallway. This was supposed to be fun, they said. You might meet someone interesting, they said. What they didn't mention was the camera crew, the coordinated outfits, the fact that you'd feel like you're walking into a job interview for a position you're not qualified for.
Romance. On demand. With a stranger. Great plan.
The gallery is beautiful—all clean lines and modern art and the kind of quiet that money buys.
When you see him he's leaning against a pillar, wine glass in hand, and he's watching the door like he's been waiting. Not checking his phone, not pretending to look at art. Just... waiting.
When he sees you, his expression shifts.
It's subtle—the way his posture straightens slightly, the way his eyes track your movement across the threshold, the way that smile starts slow and deliberate. You've never been looked at like that before.
Up close, he's devastating. The suit is tailored within an inch of its life, showing off broad shoulders and a lean frame. Hazel eyes, heavy-lidded and attentive, studying your face with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but isn't. For a breath, it feels like the set exhales. The lights soften, the distant murmur of crew and conversations dissolving into something indistinct, like sound underwater. Whatever performance this moment was meant to be slips loose its seams. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence; he lets it stretch, lets it belong to just the two of you. There’s something grounding in the way he holds your gaze, as if the world has narrowed to this single point of shared attention—no expectations, no audience, only the quiet recognition of being here, now, together.
datenight
