Charity galas are always louder than they look.

Everything sparkles glassware, jewellery and the smiles but beneath it all there’s a constant hum of performance. Everyone knows where to stand, when to laugh, how long to linger in conversation before drifting somewhere more advantageous.

I was good at it. Too good, probably.

The dress I wore was chosen days ago, approved by a stylist who knew exactly how to make me look effortless. The kind of effortlessness that takes hours. As I moved through the ballroom, heels clicking softly against marble, I smiled and nodded and shook hands, my champagne glass never quite empty.

That’s when I saw her.

Elizabeth Olsen stood near the far side of the room, speaking to an older man whose laughter boomed too loudly for the intimacy of their conversation. She wore deep green silk dress and her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, unstudied and beautiful in a way that made my chest ache unexpectedly.

I’d met her once before. A passing introduction at an awards show, the kind where names slid off each other without sticking. But now, watching her from across the room, I felt something settle a quiet pull I couldn’t explain.

Our eyes met.

Just for a second.

Her smile faltered, then softened, genuine and warm, and she lifted her glass slightly in acknowledgement. My pulse jumped. I returned the gesture before forcing myself to look away, suddenly aware of how warm the room felt.

I didn’t get a chance to speak to her.

The incident happened first.

At first, it was subtle a flicker in the lights, a ripple of confusion as the music cut out mid-note. Conversations stuttered, then resumed with forced laughter.

Then someone screamed.

Not theatrically. Not for attention.

A sharp, panicked sound that sliced through the room.

The lights went out completely.

The hum became chaos.

I felt someone collide with my shoulder as people surged towards the exits. Glass shattered somewhere to my left. A security guard shouted instructions I couldn’t hear over the sudden roar of voices.

Instinct kicked in.

I moved away from the main doors, heart pounding, scanning the darkness for an alternative route a side corridor, a service exit, anything.

“Y/N!”

I turned.

Elizabeth stood just a few feet away, her hand outstretched, eyes wide but focused. There was soot on the sleeve of her dress smoke, I realised, curling faintly near the ceiling.

“There’s a fire in the kitchen,” she said quickly. "big and spreading. The main exits are blocked.”

“How do you know?”

“I followed a staff member,” she said. “Come on.”

I didn’t hesitate.

Her fingers wrapped around my wrist, warm and firm, and she pulled me through a narrow doorway hidden behind a velvet curtain. The noise dimmed instantly, replaced by the echo of our hurried footsteps in a dim service corridor.

The door slammed shut behind us.

For a moment, we just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other in the half-light of emergency lamps.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”

She glanced down at herself, then smiled faintly. “I think so. Lost a shoe, though.”

I laughed an abrupt, breathless sound that surprised us both. The tension cracked just enough to let air in.

“We need to keep moving,” she said. “This building’s a maze, but there should be an external exit near the loading bay.”

She led the way, still holding my wrist, and I realised she hadn’t let go since we’d left the ballroom. I didn’t pull away.

The corridors twisted and narrowed, the smell of smoke growing stronger. Somewhere above us, alarms wailed. My heart raced from fear, but also from the awareness of her beside me, the way she kept glancing back to make sure I was still there.

We burst through a metal door into the cool night air.

The city swallowed us instantly traffic noise, distant sirens, the glow of streetlights reflecting off wet pavement. The gala venue loomed behind us, emergency lights flashing as people spilled out from other exits.

Elizabeth stopped, hands on her knees, laughing softly in disbelief.

“We made it,” she breathed.

I leaned against the brick wall, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing through my veins. “I think that’s the most excitement I’ve had at a fundraiser.”

She laughed properly then bright, unguarded and it did something dangerous to me.

We stood there for a moment, the night wrapping around us, the noise fading into background static. I became aware of how close we were standing. Of how her hand still hovered near mine, uncertain now.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For… not letting me get trampled.”

She smiled. “Anytime.”

Sirens grew louder, and suddenly the street felt less private. Elizabeth glanced around, then back at me.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked. “Just for a bit. Before someone recognises us and hands us bottled water and trauma questionnaires.”

I hesitated only a second. “Yes.”

We walked aimlessly at first, then with purpose, turning corners until the crowd noise faded. She slipped her one heel off tucking it under her arm, and I followed suit, laughing as we navigated uneven pavement barefoot.

There was something surreal about it two women in evening gowns, escaping into the city like teenagers playing hooky.

We found a small park tucked between buildings, lit softly by lampposts. The grass was damp, but neither of us cared as we sat on a bench, knees brushing.

The adrenaline ebbed slowly, leaving behind something quieter and more intense.

“I didn’t expect my night to go like this,” she said.

“Me neither.”

She looked at me and the world seemed to narrow to the space between us.

“I’m glad it did,” she said.

My breath caught. “Me too.”

Silence settled, heavy but not uncomfortable. I could hear the city breathing around us, distant and alive.

“I was going to come talk to you,” Elizabeth admitted softly. “Before… all that.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “I recognised you. I just didn’t want to be weird.”

I smiled. “Too late. We ran from a building together.”

She laughed, then grew serious again. “I felt safe with you. In there.”

Something in her voice made my chest ache.

“I did too,” I said. “Which is strange, considering.”

She reached out then, fingers brushing mine tentative, asking. I didn’t hesitate this time. I laced my fingers through hers, the contact sending a spark up my arm.

Her thumb traced small circles against my skin.

The moment stretched.

“I don’t know what this is,” she murmured.

“I don’t need it to be anything right now,” I replied. “Just… this.”

She leaned closer, forehead resting against mine. I could feel her breath, warm and steady.

“May I?” she asked.

I nodded.

The kiss was gentle and exploratory but charged with everything we hadn’t said. It tasted like champagne and smoke and possibility. When we pulled back, her eyes were dark, searching.

The sirens had faded. The night felt vast.

“We should probably go back eventually,” she said reluctantly.

“Eventually,” I agreed.

She smiled, still holding my hand, and for the first time that night, the adrenaline gave way to something steadier.