It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t about proving a point, or showing off, or pretending. It was the most reckless kind of instinct, the simple act of closing the half-inch gap, chasing the thing she’d been aching for all night.
But Gwen pulled back.
Not harshly, not with a shove. Just a subtle step away, the grip at her waist loosening, her face unreadable in the low light.
The rejection landed like a cold splash down Maggie’s spine.
Her breath stuttered, lips still parted. For a heartbeat, the urge to laugh it off surged. To make a joke, roll her eyes,blame the alcohol. Anything to keep from showing how it cracked her open.
But inside, she was buzzing, split between humiliation and the undeniable truth that she’d wanted Gwen to meet her halfway, and Gwen hadn’t.
Of course Gwen had pulled back. Of course Gwen was the predictable, stable, unyielding one.
Maggie shoved a hand through her hair, trying to laugh at herself, but it came out brittle. What the hell had she been thinking? That Gwen — calm, composed, always-in-control Gwen — would just give in to a messy, public kiss in the middle of a Vegas piano bar when they hadn’t been performing for an audience? When it had just been them?
She stared hard at the stage, where one of the pianists was pounding out “That’s Life,” the whole crowd shouting the chorus like it was gospel. The noise roared, but all Maggie could hear was the thud of her own pulse, the painful echo of Gwen’s hand letting go.
Humiliation simmered under her skin, sharp enough to make her stomach turn. She’d leaned in like some drunk college kid, like history and heartbreak didn’t mean a thing.
Underneath the embarrassment was something worse, the twist of ache. The part of her that still wanted Gwen to close the gap. To take her face in those careful hands and kiss her like they used to, with patience and fire all tangled up together.
Instead, Gwen had stepped back. And Maggie was left standing in the middle of a crowd that suddenly felt too bright, too loud.
She clenched her jaw, swallowed hard, told herself she’d get another drink, dance it off, laugh until it no longer stung. That was her role in this group, wasn’t it? The chaos coordinator. The entertainer.
But the truth sat heavy in her chest: She wasn’t angry at Gwen for pulling away. She was angry at herself for wantingher not to. For getting swept up in a moment that she’d ultimately regret.
Her eyes burned before she even realized what was happening, hot pressure gathering fast enough to make her blink hard once, twice, pretending it was the thick air in the press of bodies.
It wasn’t.
She pushed back from Gwen, from the whole deafening room. Nobody noticed. Pete was requesting a Shania Twain song, Izzy had Kiera pressed close, Danica was wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks. Perfect cover.
Maggie slipped through the crowd and out the door, her chest tight, heart ricocheting against her ribs. The bar was set back from Fremont in an arcade, tucked between a bowling alley and a Denny’s.
And there, in the sad orange light of a Denny’s sign, finally, the tears broke loose.
It was stupid. She hadn’t cried in months. Not really, not since the last time she and Gwen fought about quality time, or work, or silence. And now here she was, mascara smudging, shoulders shaking like a teenager heartbroken at prom.
She pressed her hands to her eyes, trying to choke it back, but the harder she fought, the harder it came.
It wasn’t just the kiss Gwen hadn’t given her. It was everything that kiss would have meant: that they weren’t done, that maybe all the mess and all the distance could still be undone.
But Gwen had pulled away.
And Maggie stood in the dark, letting herself cry where no one could see, hating how much it hurt and hating even more that part of her still wanted Gwen anyway.
The desert night was warm, dry against her damp skin. Maggie pressed her back to the brick wall beside the door, tilting her head up until the lights blurred and streakedthrough the tears still clinging to her lashes. She dragged the heel of her palm under her eyes, hard enough to sting.
God, she hated crying. Hated how raw it left her, how exposed, and in Vegas of all places — this city that thrived on facades and glitter and spectacle, not the soft, humiliating sound of someone trying not to sob.
She crossed her arms tight over her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow, trying to pull herself together. People streamed past on the street, laughing, shouting, drunk on oversized daiquiris. To them she was just another shadow against the wall.
Maggie closed her eyes. The air smelled like smoke and sugar and asphalt, sharp enough to ground her, but not sharp enough to cut through the ache.
The door creaked open behind her, spilling piano chords and laughter into the night. Maggie tensed, swiping at her face fast, ready to paste on something casual and mask it all with a flippant remark. But it was Gwen who stepped out.
Of course it was.
