"You okay?" he asked, quieter now.
April's laugh came out slightly unhinged. "Define okay."
"You want to blow this joint?"
"What?"
"Leave. Get out of here. I'm clocking uncomfortable, and I've done enough PR galas to know when someone needs an exit."
Her brain stalled. Stuck between gratitude and flattered he’d cared enough to bother.
"Yes," she said. "Yes. That. Let's do that."
Caleb grinned. "I'll round them up."
“Wait—how do you even know who to get?"
"I'm an actor. Observation's kind of the gig."
"That's—" April's brain tried to process. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting right now."
He was already guiding her toward the edge of the dance floor, his hand steady at the small of her back. When they reached Arthur, Caleb transferred her smoothly, April's handfinding Arthur's arm without her brain fully registering the choreography of it all.
"Be right back," Caleb said, and disappeared into the crowd.
April watched him disappear into the crowd with purpose that suggested he'd done this before. Probably in a rom-com. Except April was pretty sure she was neither the hero nor the girl in this scenario. She was the disaster the party was happening around.
Two minutes later, Caleb returned. With Liam. And Killian. And Jax.
April stared at Jax: newly dressed to kill, entirely uninvited, looking at her like they had unfinished business.
"You weren’t even attending," she said.
Jax shrugged. "I’m here now."
"Also," Caleb added, "Jax texted the group chat."
"There's agroup chat?"
No one answered. April decided not to pursue that line of questioning. Her brain was already at capacity.
They were halfway to the exit when Killian's hand closed gently around her wrist. "April. One second."
She let him pull her aside. Into a coat closet. The door clicked shut behind them. April looked around, at the coats, the suffocating dark, and Killian, standing too close in a space that smelled like old wool.
Her spine snapped straight. Arms folded. Head tilted. The words came out edged. "Caleb at least got me a library. You know. When he wanted to have a ‘private conversation’. Books. Natural light. Not—" She gestured at the cramped darkness. "—a closet that smells like moth balls and rich people's winter storage."
Killian's expression didn't change. "This isn't about seduction."
April's nose scrunched, "What?"
"I pulled you in here to talk. Not—" He gestured vaguely. Looked uncomfortable for the first time that evening. "Not that. I needed to apologize. And I needed to do it before we got in the car."
Killian Blackwood had been born into a tax bracket where 'sorry' was something other people said to him. April waited.
"I misread," Killian said. His voice was steady. Careful. "Are you okay?"
