“You looked like you needed help,” I say, holding the glass until he takes it. His fingers graze mine, and the touch lands clean, unhurried.
“Do I?” he asks. The corner of his mouth moves, not quite a smile.
“You’re standing apart in a room built for people to stand together and talk about themselves,” I say. “That reads as someone looking for a diversion. Or a door.”
“Maybe I’m the door.” His brows lift slightly, voice steady, amused. Up close, his eyes are brown—dark enough to hold their own light.
“To what?” I ask.
He studies me with the focus of someone fitting one shape against another. “Something you don’t expect,” he says, and the line hangs there, open-ended, like an invitation waiting to see if I’ll step through.
“If I listened every time someone said that, I’d still be home frosting cookies,” I say, letting the smile land where it should—as humor, not confession. “I’m Lila.”
He takes the whiskey and sets it aside without drinking. He doesn’t offer his hand. He doesn’t glance at my name tag or ask which campaign was mine. His attention stays on my face, as if he’s reading something that isn’t written there.
“You can call me Teo,” he says.
“Teo,” I repeat, testing it. He lets me see he knows it’s not a full name and that he won’t give me one.
“What do you do, Teo, who is maybe a door?” I ask. “You don’t look like PR.”
“I make problems smaller,” he says, his tone even, like he’s reporting a traffic jam he’s not in.
“For whom?” I turn toward him. The rest of the room fades to color and sound without shape.
“People who don’t like problems,” he says, and that almost-smile touches his mouth again before vanishing. “What do you do, Lila, who steals drinks from strangers?”
“I sell winter dreams,” I answer. “Tonight I walked in a dress that cost more than a car and convinced three hundred people it was a necessity.”
“That sounds like work,” he says.
“It is,” I say. “Work can be beautiful. And it can tire you out.”
He glances past me as a photographer raises a camera. I shift my body so the lens cannot see him. He notices. His shoulders loosen a degree.
“Who do you belong to here?” he asks, still watching the room.
“Myself,” I say, and he looks at me like I’ve said something that matters.
“Good answer,” he says.
A song rises. The DJ folds a classic into a pulse that makes the room sway. Chairs empty. Sequins and satin shift into motion.
Teo stays where he is, stillness holding in the center of movement. His missing name tag says he’s someone meant to be half-remembered. I glance at the crowd, then back at him, thespace between us thinning with the beat. I tilt my head toward the floor.
“Dance,” I say. It isn’t a question.
He hesitates, then sets his glass on the marble and offers his hand. Pale scars cross his knuckles, work that doesn’t come from a screen. His palm is warm when it closes over mine, and as we step forward, the crowd shifts aside with that instinct people have when the room’s already made the space.
The music shifts beats, light, clever, something that knows how to smile. Strings skim over a steady percussion, and people loosen their shoulders and forget their posture.
He’s better than I expect, quick on the turn, steady when I test him. He leaves room for me to spin when I want and to pause when I don’t. I laugh, and the sound feels borrowed from an easier night.
“Do your feet ever forgive you after a show?” he asks.
“Eventually,” I say. “Once they’ve filed their complaints.”
“You could try flats.”
