“Still standing,” he said, his hands steadying at her hips as they moved.
“Is that a surprise?”
“Not to me.” He spun her, then drew her back against his chest, his rhythm meeting hers. “But I don’t think most people could.”
“I did cry in a supply closet this morning.”
“And now you’re here. Dancing.”
Caleb cut in next, smooth as anything. “The script says I should let someone else have the next dance. Fuck the script.”
“Do you always talk like you’re in a movie?”
“I’ve been in seventeen movies and three series. At this point, I’m not sure where the performance ends and I begin.” He pulled her close, bodies moving together in a way that wouldn’t pass broadcast standards. “But this? You? This is real.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I make believe for a living.” His eyes were serious despite the smile. “And even though you’re impossibly genuine, nothing about you feels like make-believe.”
Jax appeared next to her when Caleb spun her out, caught her before she could stumble, and pulled her into a rhythm that felt controlled and chaotic at the same time.
He moved with her, his body leading hers through the crowd with absolute certainty.
“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. Shakespeare understood chaos.” His eyes held hers, “Most people resist chaos. You shape it.”
“I’m not good at chaos. I’minchaos.”
“Same thing,” Jax said. “You’re better at it than you think you are.”
Then he smiled and kissed the back of her hand before guiding her toward the booth.
???
Arthur didn’t dance.
When April stumbled back to the booth this time, overheated, overstimulated, her temperature regulation clearly offline, Arthur didn’t just hand her water. He guided her down onto his lap instead, firm and stable beneath her.
“Drink.”
She drank and barely had time to register the shift before he leaned in and pressed a solid kiss to her forehead. His hands held her at the waist with a certainty that made movement feel unnecessary. She settled into him.
“Good girl.” The words vibrated against her back, “That’s better.”
Something clicked and April understood what that voice would sound like in the dark. Heat flushed through her. Arthur’s hands tightened at her waist, as if he’d tracked the shift and filed it away.
He produced a small packet of wet wipes. “Your makeup is smudged.”
Of course it was.
She cleaned her face as best she could, still sitting in his lap, still hyperaware of every point of contact. At some point, he’d looked at her and decided she was worth protecting, then simply acted accordingly.
When was the last time anyone had believed in her like that, without conditions, disclaimers, or exit clauses? She couldn’tremember. So she smiled at him, a little watery, and said the first thing her brain could manage.
“I started the day with negative men. Now there are seven. The math doesn’t even make sense.”
“The math makes perfect sense,” Arthur said calmly, his hands still secure at her waist. “You’re exceptional. Exceptional things don’t follow normal distribution curves.”
“Did you just use statistics to compliment me?”
