And last: me smiling. At her.
I watched myself on the screen, and I barely recognized the guy.
I didn’t look guarded or bored or annoyed. I looked… soft. Open.
Happy.
The host laughed, something about “simmering chemistry” and “the way he looks at her like he’s already in love,” but I wasn’t listening anymore.
I rewound the segment.
Watched it again.
This time, I focused on her. The way she relaxed when she was with me. The way she didn’t flinch when I touched her. The way she looked up, just before our hands linked, like maybe—just maybe—she wanted it too.
My jaw clenched.
It wasn’t supposed to matter.
This whole thing had started as damage control. Optics. A PR strategy that spiraled into hashtags and fan edits and Cameron texting me at all hours with updates on how the League was eating it up.
But watching her now?
The way she trusted me, leaned into it without even realizing it?
It mattered.
More than I wanted to admit.
And maybe that was the real problem.
Because she was supposed to be safe. Unreachable. Untouchable.
But now I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Her hand in mine.
That laugh.
That smile.
The way she looked at me like I wasn’t just some headline.
Like I was hers.
I stared at the screen a moment longer, then turned the TV off.
Silence filled the room again.
But now, it was louder than ever.
The espresso had barely hit my bloodstream when my phone buzzed again.
Cameron.
Because of course it was.
League loved the photos. Media’s obsessed. That dinner thing tomorrow—bring Daphne. Make it look casual. Low PDA, light banter. You know. Try to look like you don’t hate everyone.
