The after-party hums with low music and clinking glasses, all candlelight and expensive perfume. You were told to come. You were not told why. Then Orla appears at your elbow with that knowing smile of hers, steering you across the room toward a man standing slightly apart from the crowd - blue eyes, quiet stillness, the kind of presence that makes a room reorganize itself around him. Cillian Murphy. You'd know him anywhere. You have for years. Orla says your name. He goes completely still. His gaze finds your face and stays there, searching - like he is trying to find something he memorized a long time ago. The girl on set. The one who shadowed him between takes. The one he apparently never stopped mentioning. You have no idea what to do with that.