New Yorkers

Dancing. You were never good at it.

After dancing to You Make My Dreams, Mmmbop, and Mamma Mia, Sebastian insisted that you should rest, which you said it was the last time you’d dance like that again.

“Having fun so far?” he asked.

“I was having fun being alone at the bar awhile ago,” you said. “Dancing isn’t fun.”

“You were laughing the whole time. I’m sure it was at least a tiny bit of fun,” he remarked leading you towards the bar again. He ordered himself another drink and you did as well, telling the barista to add your drink to your friend’s name.

“I was laughing because you danced so awfully,” you said letting out another laugh as you sat on the stool. “Seriously, for someone who performed in Broadway, you’re a shitty dancer.”

“Thanks, darling,” he sarcastically replied. “You’re a shitty dancer, too. Makes us a team.”

“Oh, well,” you shrugged. “At least nobody’s following me around when I’m dancing.”

“Hey, shhh. Don’t go telling anyone I’m here. I mean, I’m not that famous but they get annoying sometimes. Especially when I’m just tired and they keep following me around." 

“Sorry, I already tweeted it,” you joked. “Explains why you decided to live on this side of New York City.”

He nodded, taking the drink the barista set in front of us. “A lot of people still recognize me and ask for pictures but that’s better than having paparazzi outside your building, waiting for you every damn morning." 

You hummed in agreement. “I can’t imagine a life like yours. Must be exhausting, huh?”

“The paparazzi and media are terrible sometimes. And yes, it gets exhausting, but it’s rewarding though—fulfilling even.”

“You’re really nice,” you blurted out. “I mean, you’re successful and everything but you still talk to me. I guess I’m just surprised, because if you were anyone else, you would have forgotten me the second I was out of that café.”

He only smiled and blushed. “So,” he started again. “Tell me about yourself.” 

“Well, you already know a few stuff. I’m 29, I work as—”

“The stuff I don’t know,” he interrupted. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Really?” He nodded. You sighed. “It’s blue. But not just any kind of blue. Navy blue. What’s yours?”

“Black,” he said. “And red. I don’t know. I still can’t decide. It’s been 30 years.”

You laughed.

“I write stuff,” you said. “I mean, like novels and stuff. None of my works are published, besides those terrible articles I wrote for local newspapers and my blog. I just write and hope to get noticed.”

“I’m sure you’re a great writer,” he replied. “I act.”

“I kind of already figured that out, Seb.”

He was about to say something when one of your friends, Zoe, wrapped her arms around you from behind and rested her chin on your shoulder. Again, just like every time someone startles you, you almost jumped out of your stool.

“Zoe, what the hell?” you exclaimed, clutching on your chest and putting your drink on the counter.

“Hello to you, too, sweetheart,” she grinned. “And hi, Mr. Stan. I didn’t know you knew my friend.” 

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Seb, this is Zoe. Zoe, you already know who he is.”

 She untangled her arms around you and proceeded to offer a hand to Sebastian, who gladly shook it with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Seb." 

“It’s Sebastian. Don’t call him Seb, he’s my friend,” you interrupted, making Sebastian laugh. 

“Seb’s alright for me,” he told Zoe, letting her hand go. “But if she says you should call me Sebastian, I think you should. She’s kind of bossy.”

You gasped, “I’m not!” You jokingly punched him on the shoulder.

“Well, I won’t be long. I just needed a drink,” Zoe said then turned to the barista. “Can you give table six another round of beers?” The barista nodded and proceeded to take her order. “Hey, Sebastian,” she said, exphasizing his name. “Take care of our girl, alright? She doesn’t like us.”

“I love you very much,” you protested. “But I don’t like body shots.”

“Oldie,” she said, sticking her tongue out. “Anyway, come back to our table when you want or whatever. Just give us a heads up when you’re heading home.”

“Will do,” you agreed and gave her a hug as she went away.

You looked at Sebastian and apologized. “Zoe is… Zoe. Sorry about her.”

“It’s alright,” he assured. “You sure you wanna stay here and talk to me? You can go back to them now. I’m pretty sure they’re done with body shots.”

You smiled. “I like talking to you,” you blurted out without thinking. “I mean, you’re nice."

“You are, too,” he replied. “So, tell me about your childhood." 

And so you did. On a Friday night, you told Sebastian Stan a few stories about your childhood, and he told you what it was like to be on a set, acting out words from scripts.

You were so into telling each other stories when your phone started ringing. It was Shay, one of your friends, who were probably drunk as hell somewhere. You told Sebastian you needed to go to their table in case something happened, but he insisted that you should just answer the phone. 

“Shay?” you asked. “Something wrong?”

“No, no,” she said. She sounded alright. Well, she should be. She was the designated driver tonight. “Where are you? Mark just left. He took Zoe and Ashley home. Zack’s on his way to help me get the rest of these sluts home. Are you drunk?” 

“I’m still at the bar. And no, I’ve had a few but I’m not drunk. Do you need help?" 

“No, no, it’s fine. Zack and I can handle them. He’s on his way. Do you need us to drive you home?” she asked, and you looked at Sebastian who was sitting right in front of you, also on his phone—texting, maybe. 

And you thought about it for a moment. Whenever you were with Sebastian, you always thought that it would be the last one. Maybe you lucked out the first few times. Maybe he would leave again for a shoot or something. Maybe this was the last time.

“I’ll stay for a bit,” you said after a few seconds, making Sebastian look up from his phone.

“Are you with someone? Can he take you home? I mean, it’s really late. You can’t go home on your own.”

“It’s fine,” you said. “I’ve got company. We’ll be fine. Thank you, Shay.”

“All right, sweetie,” she said and bid her goodbye.

You ended the call and slipped your phone back to your jeans’ back pocket. Sebastian, who was still looking at you, smiled.

“I’m guessing you’re not heading home yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” you replied. “You’re not going back to your friends?”

“They’re all on their way home,” he answered.

“What?” you asked. “Why didn’t you tell me? You should have gone with them!”

“I made the right choice,” he shrugged and took a sip from his drink. “You didn’t go home with your friends as well.”

You smiled, and took a sip from your drink as well.

Your night went on, even when it was almost midnight. Had you not gone to the bar alone, you could have been home now, sleeping from all the exhaustion and dreaming about nothing and everything. 

Three more rum and cokes later, you were ready to leave. Sebastian paid for his tab, and the one drink you had after your friends have left, and led you outside.

“How are you gonna get home?” you asked him.

“With you,” he answered.

You laughed. “Let’s walk then?”

“If you want to,” he replied, smiling.

You took a turn and started walking side by side. Your heels hurt like hell, and you regret wearing them, like you do every time. It was silent for a couple of minutes until Sebastian started telling you another story of when he was 25, intoxicated and in love. 

“A boom box,” you snorted. “How cheesy can you be, Sebastian Stan?”

“I swear,” he said. “And that was a month after the break up. I literally just went up in front of her house, super drunk, at two in the morning. I’m not even gonna lie; I was literally sobbing as When You Say Nothing At All by Ronan Keating played from the boom box. Her neighbors probably woke up, I don’t remember. But I remember her calling one of my pals to pick me up. And I was just standing there, begging for her to take me back. But she didn’t. My friend said I was passed out on the sidewalk by the time he arrived. She didn’t even get out of her house to check if I was okay.” 

You laughed, then apologized. “You really bargained for her love, then?”

“Not really,” he answered. “I wouldn’t have done that if I weren’t drunk as fuck. I didn’t even talk to her after the break up or after that incident.”

“You still did,” you remarked. “I would like to see that. Next time that happens, please tell your girl or friends to tape it.”

“I will,” he said, laughing with you.

You were in front of your building by the time your laughing had died down. 

“Well,” you said as you stopped and rocked yourself back and forth. “This is where I live. Now that you know, you can stop stalking me.”

He bit his lip and chuckled. “Sure, (Y/N), whatever you say.”

“Thanks for tonight, Seb, even if we really didn’t plan this,” you said.

“You’re welcome, and thanks,” he replied. “Well, we can always make plans if you want.” 

You only nodded and watched him pull his phone from his pocket. He handed his phone to you 

“Put your number on, so I can call you when I can,” he said. So you did, and saved it with your full name. He took your phone back, smiled when he noticed you put your full name, and tapped the screen. Seconds later, your phone was ringing from your back pocket. 

“Just wanted to make sure,” he said.

“You actually thought I gave you a fake number?” you asked.

“I’m kidding,” he replied. “Save my number. I’ll text you first. I know how you girls get frustrated when men don’t text you first.” 

You gasp. “Speak for other women, Mr. Stan. I don’t.”

“Whatever,” he said and slipped his phone back to his pocket.

“I’ll see you around, then?” you asked, and he nodded.

You thought he would just agree and then start walking away, but you were surprised when he stepped closer and pulled you for a hug. He engulfed you in his arms, and as cliché as it sounded, you fit together. His arms were wrapped around your torso, and it took you a second to wrap yours around his neck and give him a pat on the shoulder.

The moment was short, but enough to make your heart race.

“I’ll see you around,” he whispered, lips pressed to your hair. And finally, he let go.

You smiled as you pulled away and started walking towards your building’s entrance. He watched you walk, and you stopped once you’ve entered. 

Confused, you asked him, “What are you still doing there? Go!”

He laughed, nodding. And started walking.

“Be careful!” you reminded. “Some fangirls might be on your way and take you!”

“Goodnight!” he yelled back, laughing and you watched him go.

The eighteen—no, wait—nineteenth of November was a great day. It was only two in the morning, but you already knew.