She smiled back, soft and a little sad. “The whole point is that we’re not.”
The words settled in my chest, a reminder of our agreement. After tonight, we were done. That’s what we’d said—get through the wedding, and then… what? I’d go back to New York, and we’d pretend tonight hadn’t happened?
I didn’t want that. But I didn’t know how to ask for more without breaking whatever this fragile thing between us was.
The song ended. Another started. We kept dancing until the band announced they were taking a break and other couples started drifting back to their tables. Until there was no good reason to stay on the floor except that neither of us wanted to let go.
“Ready to head home?” I finally asked.
She nodded, and I laced my fingers through hers as we made our way back to the table to grab our things.
I should find Alex, let him know we were leaving. I spotted him near the bar, swaying slightly, deep in conversation with Nick about something that looked serious. Maybe I could just text him later—
“Connor!” Alex’s face lit up when he saw me, and he crossed the distance in three unsteady steps. His hand landed on my shoulder, gripping a little too tight. “You’re not leaving already?”
“We’re pretty tired—”
“But we’ve got the Polaris Suite upstairs for the afterparty.” His words ran together slightly. “You have to come. Please? Just for one drink?”
I held up my hand, still linked with Hannah’s, and tried to telegraph:Dude, I’d rather not watch you get more drunk while I could be taking her home.
He followed my gesture to Hannah, seemed to really see her for the first time, and something in his expression shifted—softer, more vulnerable. “Oh. Right.” He swayed slightly. “I was hoping we could get the gang back together. Like the old days.”
“Another time, I promise,” I said carefully. “Come to New York, we’ll get drinks.”
“I miss you, Connor.” His hand slid from my shoulder, and his eyes were suddenly too bright. Not angry-drunk or sloppy-drunk—just sentimental. “Working with you, yeah, but just… you. My friend. You know?”
“I know, Alex. I miss you too.”
He nodded, looked down at his shoes, then back up with renewed purpose. “Shots. Let’s do shots before you go.” Before I could object, he was already waving down a server. “My brother’s tequila. To celebrate that I married the world’s most amazing woman.” His face softened, all earnest enthusiasm as he wagged a finger in my face. “You can’t say no to me, it’s my wedding day.”
Hannah
Ishouldn’thavetakenthat last shot.
Or maybe the one before that. The one Alex insisted on, even though Grace was giving him the look that meant he’d be sleeping it off on the couch in the honeymoon suite.
But I’d tossed it back without thinking… because thinking was the problem. Thinking meant remembering that Connor was leaving tomorrow, acknowledging that whatever this was ended tonight.
So I didn’t think. I drank to pretend everything was fine.
We climbed the stairs to our apartment, gripping the railing because the world had a pleasant tilt to it. Not spinning, just blurry. His bow tie hung loose around his neck. When had that happened?
I stopped on the landing, turned to face him. “I don’t want tonight to end.”
The too-honest words came out before I could stop them, and I wanted to take them back immediately for being too much. But Connor stepped closer enough to smell tequila on his breath.
“It doesn’t have to,” he said.
I kissed him before the moment could get heavier, before either of us could say something we’d regret. He tasted like lime and salt and bad decisions, and I pressed closer, needing the contact, needing to feelsomethingother than the growing pit in my stomach, the anticipatory anxiety of his absence.
We stumbled to the door. My keys slipped through my fingers. Connor’s hand covered mine, steadying it—or trying to, though his fingers weren’t coordinated either—until together we got the key in the lock.
We fell through the doorway, mouths still connected. I yanked at his bow tie, finally getting it off and throwing it… somewhere. His jacket followed.
My hands went to his shirt buttons, but they were so small, and my fingers felt thick and clumsy. “Why are there so many buttons?”
He laughed, helping me, and when the shirt finally fell open I pressed my palms against his chest. Warm. Solid. Real. I could focus on that instead of—
