Kate stiffens a fraction, smile polite but tight, eyes flicking briefly toward Addison before returning to the conversation. She shifts her weight, creating distance that the man closes without noticing or caring. His hand comes up, hovering near her elbow, fingers grazing fabric as if by accident.
It isn’t.
My feet are already moving before I consciously decide to intervene.
I step in smoothly, camera lowered, presence deliberate but unthreatening. I don’t raise my voice or break the illusion of civility. I simply insert myself into the space the man shouldn’t be occupying.
“Excuse me,” I cut in, tone even, calm enough to disarm without escalating. “Mind if I steal her for a moment?”
The man looks irritated, then reassesses when he takes me in fully. His expression shifts—calculation replacing entitlement—and he lifts his hands slightly in concession.
“Of course,” he relents, already stepping back.
Kate turns toward me, surprise flickering across her face before she masks it. I don’t give her time to question it. I place a hand at her waist, firm enough to guide, and steer her away from the cluster.
To anyone watching, it looks like an invitation. To me, it’s extraction.
Her body responds instantly, moving with me without hesitation, fingers brushing my sleeve as we step into open space. The music swells as I adjust our positioning and bring her into the rhythm of the dance floor.
Her breath catches.
I feel it through the space between us—the subtle shift in her posture as she realizes what’s happening. My hand remains at her waist, steady, anchoring. Her other hand rests lightly against my shoulder, tentative at first, then settling as she finds her balance.
“Thank you,” she simply appreciates me.
I don’t respond as we keep moving in sync.
The dance is slow, the kind designed to look intimate without requiring conversation. I guide her easily, muscle memory taking over, movements precise and economical. Her steps falter for half a second before she finds the rhythm, and when she does, she moves with surprising grace.
Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s unquestionable trust there. That lands harder than it should.
She exhales softly, like she’s just realized she’s been holding her breath. Looks like she’s done being silent.
“So,” she starts, voice low enough that it stays between us, “is this part of your photography package? Dancing your subjects away from social disasters?”
I don’t answer.
Her fingers tighten briefly at my shoulder, then relax. “Because if it is, I feel like that should be listed somewhere. Very exclusive and effective.”
She shifts again, testing the space between us, clearly aware of how close we are. “You’ve been ignoring me,” she adds, lighter this time, like she’s joking. “Which, just for the record, is impressive considering we came here as a package deal.”
I guide her through a slow turn without comment, my hand firm at her waist. Her breath stutters when she comes back against me.
“That’s not a denial,” she murmurs. “Just saying.”
I say nothing as the music carries us, and she follows my lead without resistance.
“You know,” she continues, undeterred, “most men at least pretend nothing happened. You went straight to… whatever this is.” She gestures vaguely between us with a small laugh. “Intense silence.”
My jaw tightens, and she notices.
“Oh, okay,” she sighs softly. “Touchy subject.”
All too soon, the song ends, but I don’t release her immediately.
The music fades, applause rippling around us, but I stay where I am, hand still at her waist, fingers firm enough to remind us both that I haven’t stepped away yet. The room presses in again—voices, movement, light—but something between us has narrowed to a point that doesn’t allow distractions.
Kate’s breath is shallow now. I feel it against my chest, in the way her body stays aligned with mine, even though the dance is over. She doesn’t pull back; instead, she tilts her head slightly like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
