I wait in the cold, back to a stone pillar, hood up. Valets choreograph cars like a dance. The ballroom’s music leaks out when the doors open, sterile joy, tuned to a donation pitch. People flow past me in couture and cologne clouds. I keep my eyes on the revolving door and count my breaths. Nine minutes. Eight. Seven.
He appears with Kyle beside him. It hits like a slash to the ribs. Kyle’s hand at Alaric’s elbow. Casual, proprietary. Alaric says something I can’t hear, expression composed.
Then he touches Kyle’s arm, small and sincere.Thank youorI owe youorI’m sorry; I can’t tell.
Alaric presses his forehead for a second like it hurts, then smiles a careful smile. Kyle nods, speaks to a team handler at the curb. A car is called, Kyle steps in and peels away.
Alaric rounds the corner, doesn’t look for me. He knows I’m here. He walks straight to the shadows, head down, shoulders loose in a way I didn’t see once inside.
“My cars over here,” I say, leading him to the back alley.
“I feel like a princess,” he mutters, sliding in.
I laugh as swing behind the wheel, pull us into traffic, feel my lungs unclench. The city blurs, a river of black glass and reflected light.
For a few blocks, neither of us talks. Guilt rides shotgun, jealousy in the back seat with its feet on the upholstery. Quiet settles like a verdict, but it’s not hostile. It’s earned.
He breaks first. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“You shouldn’t have ignored me.”
“I was trying to be good,” he says to the window.
“How’d that go?”
His laugh is a small, broken thing. “I spent the whole night imagining you walking in and ruining me.”
“I did walk in.”
“I noticed,” he says, and the corner of his mouth betrays him.
“Did I ruin you?”
He considers. “Not yet.”
“Give me a minute.”
He snorts, finally looking over, tux loosened at the throat like he’s decided to breathe. “Thank you for not… being obvious.”
“I’m capable of stealth,” I say, wounded.
He looks me up and down. “You wore combat boots to a black-tie event.”
“They’re matte,” I say. “They count as formal.”
The smile that sneaks out of him warms my hands on the wheel. I want to hoard it. I want to frame it. I want to be there the next time it shows up.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says after a beat, quieter. “Not like this. Not with a father who measures affection in column inches. Not with a team watching. Not with—” He stops before he says Kyle’s name.
“Then don’t do it like they want,” I say. “Do it like you want.”
“And what if what I want is the wrong thing?”
I glance over. “You mean me?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
We hit a red. The car idles. Outside, a couple argues under a streetlight in formalwear—her hands sharp, his mouth apologizing. The light changes. I turn right toward the river and the high-rise that knows his name.
