In front of everyone.
On this makeshift stage with twenty-five people watching and at least five phones recording.
His lips are soft. Warm. Moving against mine like he’s been thinking about it. Like maybe he’s been falling apart the same way I have. Like maybe all that distance these last two weeks was him running from this exact moment.
His other hand finds my waist. Pulls me closer.
Not for show.
Not calculated.
This feels?—
Real.
My hands find his sweater. Grip the soft fabric. The microphone falls from my other hand—thunk—but I don’t care.
The room is losing it. Cheering. Whistling. Tyler’s yelling something. Lauren’s actually crying. Someone’s chanting “KISS! KISS! KISS!” even though we are literally already doing that.
He pulls back. Slowly. Reluctantly.
His forehead rests against mine for just a second.
“Chloe—” It’s so quiet I almost miss it when he breathes my name.
But then the cheering breaks through.
Reality.
The room.
All of it rushing back like cold water.
He steps back.
Smiles at the crowd.
Waves the microphone—which he somehow didn’t drop, unlike me.
The perfect performer. Back on stage.
And just like that, the wall is back up.
The party continues.
More karaoke. Tyler and his girlfriend massacre something country. One of Derek’s teammates attempts “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and it’s objectively terrible, but everyone loves it anyway because we’re all happy and having fun.
Brody stays close. Plays his role. Arm around my waist. Laughing. Chatting about upcoming games.
But he’s distant.
Careful.
Like the kiss broke something instead of fixing it. Like he gave too much and now he’s pulling back twice as hard.
Like he’s scared of what happens if he stays in that vulnerable place for too long.
People start leaving. Grabbing coats. Calling Ubers. Promising to see everyone at the wedding.
