Then she spots him, and her grin falters. Dark eyes narrow, and all traces of softness vanish in an instant. “And… who’s this?”
Matt flashes that polite, dangerous smile that never reaches his eyes. “Just someone who got tired of pretending he could stay away.”
I open my mouth to tell him exactly how bad an idea this is, but another voice cuts through the tension—Louis. He’s still in his all-black getup from earlier, camera strap slung over his shoulder, confusion clouding his features.
“I was coming to ask if you had plans after the show but…”
Matt’s jaw flexes. The air between them snaps tight like a wire stretched too far.
“Louis, this is—” I start, but Matt steps closer, cutting me off with a hand at the small of my back.
“Her boyfriend,” he says smoothly.
My breath catches. “Matt—”
He doesn’t give me time to argue. His fingers slide higher, firm and possessive in a way that sets every nerve in my body alight. The world seems to pause—the chatter, the laughter, even the music dimming beneath the pounding of my heart.
I should push him away. I should tell him he’s about to ruin everything. But the heat of his hand between my shoulder blades, the curve of his body against mine, the danger in his eyes—somewhere between reckless and divine—makes logic burn out like a fuse.
Then he kisses me. It’s not gentle. It’s years of longing and fury and something darker tangled together, heat crashing through me until I forget the noise, the people, the risk.Somewhere in the blur, I hear Isabella gasp and Louis mutter something that sounds like a curse, but none of it matters.
When Matt finally pulls back, his eyes burn into mine—wild, certain, impossible to look away from. “We’re done pretending,” he says quietly, just for me.
My heart lurches, tangled between exhilaration and terror. The backstage lights feel too bright, the air too thin, my pulse too fast. I want to shove him away, want to tell him this is insane. But the ache in my chest—the part of me that’s always belonged to him—keeps me rooted.
I find myself whispering, “Then don’t make me regret it.”
He takes my hand before I can change my mind, threading his fingers through mine as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment, before pressing a kiss to my wrist.
Isabella’s still staring, eyes bright and unblinking. Louis has already turned away, Jamie’s been swallowed by the crowd pressing in around us, and my classmates are a distant blur of energy and chatter, already making plans to go out, to celebrate, to stretch this night into something loud and unforgettable.
But Matt doesn’t join the noise. He just squeezes my hand once, grounding, deliberate. A tether. Then he leans in, his presence solid at my back, his voice low and steady against my ear.
“Let’s get out of here.”
For once, I can’t bring myself to care about the fallout, not when Matt’s here, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, putting me first even as every instinct screams that his presence is reckless.
He’s risking everything just to be near me, threading danger through the very air between us even as he threads our handstogether, and the tension between us feels ready to snap, pulling us both under, and yet I can’t look away.
The second we step outside, the night air hits like a slap—cool, sharp against my overheated skin. I shiver, and before I can even think, Matt slips his leather jacket around my shoulders. The scent of him—smoke, pine, something dark—wraps around me, and suddenly the chill isn’t just on my skin.
The noise from the venue fades behind us—laughter, camera flashes, the hum of fashion and chaos dissolving into the soft, murmuring sounds of Lyon after dusk.
He doesn’t speak, a comfortable silence filling the space between us as his hand stays wrapped around mine, warm and steady, guiding me through the narrow side street that spills onto the riverfront. I catch our reflection in a darkened shop window—him in a dark shirt and jeans, me still in my dress, a trail of silk brushing the cobblestones behind me.
“Matt, this is—” I start.
“Exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he finishes without an ounce of hesitation.
The words should comfort me, but they twist something deep in my chest instead. I can’t tell if it’s relief or fear. Maybe both.
We walk for a few blocks before he finally slows outside a small bistro still open, the kind that smells of melted butter and espresso. A few late diners sit beneath hanging lights, their laughter low and unhurried, the scene almost too ordinary to belong in our world. I should be backstage, packing up, getting out of this dress, and celebrating with my classmates.
Instead, I’m here with the man I still can’t stay away from, even when he’s the one who taught me how it feels to break. And for the first time, a small, fragile part of me dares to hope this could be different, that maybe tonight, he won’t leave.
Maybe for the first time in his life, he’s choosing something other than expectations and duty. Or maybe—terrifyingly—he’s choosing me despite them.
The thought is dangerous. But once it takes hold, I can’t stop it.
