Click.
"Amy! Come on now, you know I hate having my picture taken."
"Which, I have to say, is kinda weird for a photographer."
"Not really, I would just rather be taking the pictures than be in them." All of your friends know about your complex about being photographed, and you've been doing just fine all night avoiding the cameras, although it's been surprisingly difficult at such a high profile party like this. Amy texted you last week asking if you'd be interested in crashing a premiere after party with her. Her boyfriend, George, landed a supporting role in a film that's actually been getting a lot of attention in Hollywood and New York City was holding the official premiere tonight. As much as you hate partying, Amy was so excited about the night that you actually agreed. Now, after spending half the night at the open bar, and the other half standing awkwardly in the corner, feeling completely out of place, you're beginning to regret accepting.
"You could still make a serious living on the other side of the camera. Just look at those eyes." She shows you the picture she just snapped of the two of you, but all you can see is how your make up isn't quite covering that breakout on your chin, and the angle does nothing for the double chin that she keeps telling you isn't there.
"Right, the eyes, because eyes are the thing people notice on models. My wide hips and lack of pouty lips would go completely unnoticed." You try to snatch the phone, but she pockets it too quickly,
"You are way more beautiful than you think." She says matter-of-factly.
"Who's beautiful?" George asks, butting in,
"No one." You answer quickly, trying to silence Amy and change the subject before the three of you get into your self-image issues again, "What's up? Having fun?"
"Oh!" George says suddenly, "I wanted to introduce you to someone."
"George, please no. No more set ups." They had never gone well in the past, and you were convinced they were no longer worth the trouble.
"No, this will be good." He waves someone over from the other side of the room and discreetly tells you a little bit about the guy, "I think you two will hit it off. He's one of the stars from this movie, he's originally from Eastern Europe, but he's lived in Manhattan for the last twenty-ish years, still hangs out here when he isn't off shooting. Also," he tacks on at the last minute, "he and his long term girlfriend broke up about two weeks ago." Before you can react to the last fact he throws at you, your little group is suddenly joined by a man who looks to be around 30, nursing a beer, "Sebastian, meet my girlfriend, Amy."
"Oh, yeah," he says, "George was telling me about you, you're a dancer, right?" Her eyes widen and she blushes as he shakes her hand, making her giggle too much to coherently answer. You try to stifle your laugh at her reaction. You've never really understood her infatuation with him, but at least she didn't go overboard with her admiration.
"And this is the friend I was telling you about," he nudges Sebastian, "Y/N, Sebastian Stan."
"Nice to meet you, Y/N." He says with a lopsided smile, shaking your hand. You nod your hello, less than excited about an impromptu set up at a party you didn't even want to go to. Part of you keeps insisting that he's incredibly handsome, his smile is charming, what's the harm of chatting with him? But then every other guy you've been set up with flashes through your mind and you suddenly don't have the energy for this.
"You know what Seb does," George says to you, then turns to his friend, "Sebastian, Y/N is a photographer."
"Oh, wow. What kind of photography do you do?" Sebastian asks, seeming to be sincerely interested,
"Well, right now it's mostly family portraits, baby announcements, that sort of thing."
"She's also an only child, loves reading, and is working on opening her own photography studio here." George chimes in,
"Why is this starting to feel like a dating profile?" You ask with an embarrassed groan,
"Dating?" Sebastian says, his eyes getting a little wide, "Hang on, man," He looks wearily at George, "no thanks. You didn't tell me you were trying to set me up."
"No thanks?" You repeat his words, trying not to be offended, "Who said I was interested?" He sputters a little bit, trying to backtrack, though not doing a very good job of it,
"Well... Wait, that's not what I meant."
"Come on, guys, if you could just loosen up, I really think you'd hit it off." George says to the both of you, trying to push you toward him.
"Not happening." You say, shrugging away from him. At a sideways glance, you notice Sebastian looks a little hurt by your tone, but you shake off the sting, as you're sure he will. You both just met. He'll be fine.
Sebastian excuses himself fairly quickly under the pretense of needing another drink,
"Look, Amy, I'm gonna take off." You mutter soon after, the socialization getting to be exhausting,
"Oh please don't leave like this, just stay for a couple more drinks and unwind then head home. I'll even pay for your cab."
She pleads so much you actually give in,
"Fine. One more drink."
"Two more." She insists, pulling you to the makeshift bar in the kitchen.
A few hours, and far more than two drinks later, you're on the dance floor, but you're not sure if you're dancing or the room is spinning, though you're currently buzzing so high you don't even care. You don't care that you have a photo shoot tomorrow, or later today, at this point; you don't care that you're $200 short on the rent that's due next week, you don't care about any of it. You're just spinning, twirling, moving with the blaring music.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize you aren't dancing alone, vaguely registering arms wrapping around your waist, hands settling in your hips, lips on your neck, but you just keep focusing on the feelings. Soon your hands are all over him, fisting in his shirt, tangling in his hair as you kiss him back. Then the rhythm changes. The music is gone. The atmosphere is different. You're not on the dance floor, but the movements don't stop. The feelings building. The pleasured fog you're basking in intensifies, a coil breaks loose inside you and you're falling. No, not falling, someone has a hold of you, pulling you close and anchoring you to them as the rhythm slows. He pulls you to his side and you're promptly wrapped in warmth. You're head rests on a strong chest, listening to slowing breaths as the fog gives way to shadow, every muscle in you relaxes, and the warmth overtakes you, pulling you into a dreamless sleep.
