I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “You can’t say things like that to me here.”
“Especially here,” he says, echoing the thought that’s been gnawing at me all night. His breath brushes my cheek. “Because here, you can pretend it’s the music.”
The band leans into the melody; strings turn the room into syrup. His palm guides me through a turn, subtle, and I fit back against him like we practiced it in another life. We don’t talk for a few measures.We just move. His presence lines up every misfiring nerve in me and says, there—now you’re pointed where you meant to go.
When he finally speaks again, it’s almost inaudible. “You wore blue to make me behave badly.”
“I wore blue to make me brave.”
“Same thing,” he says. “Different defendant.”
I huff, a sound that’s halfway to a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re stunning.” His mouth tilts closer to my ear, heat skimming my skin. “I tried to imagine this and I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“How it would feel to have you this close and still be civilized.”
“Are you?” I whisper. “Civilized?”
“For you,” he says. “Only ever for you.”
A muscle in my neck loosens I didn’t know I’d been clenching. The ribbon under my cuff remembers the hallway, the keycard, every careful yes. His hand on my waist firms, not possessive—anchoring. I realize I’ve been floating an inch outside my body since October and he’s the first person to convince me to come back.
Across his shoulder, I catch Dad’s profile. He’s half-laughing at something the assistant coach says, but his eyes are scanning, always scanning. When they skim the dance floor, I feel the air thin.
“Wayne,” I breathe, barely moving my lips.
“I know,” Triston says. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t need to. “Stay with me.”
“That’s the problem.”
“It’s the solution,” he says, unbothered. “For the duration of a song.”
“It’s never just a song with you.”
“Nothing is,” he says. “That’s the curse, and the blessing.”
We rotate with the tide of other couples. The captain and the coach’s daughter, doing exactly what everyone in this room expects and absolutely nothing they’d forgive if they could hear my heartbeat. People we’ve known for years move by in a glittering carousel—players with their wives, staff in their best dresses, donors who pay to feel tender for an evening. No one looks concerned. That’s the scariest part. If danger wore antlers, I could avoid it. This danger wears a perfect tie and knows when to laugh at the joke.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, and it isn’t a demand. It’s an invitation to stop drowning alone.
“I’m thinking I don’t belong to anyone,” I say, which is almost brave and almost a warning.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m careful.”
“You’re not careful,” I say, and he smiles like I just teased him in a language only we know.
“Only looks that way because I want to be reckless,” he says. “You’re the difference.”
“You’re very good at this,” I murmur.
“At what?”
“Saying the dangerous thing and making it sound like a promise instead of a threat.”
He considers that, eyes warm and sharp at once. “Maybe because I don’t make threats to you, Samantha. I just tell the truth and then try to be the kind of man who deserves it.”
