Neither of them answers.
Kane hands me a drink like this is normal. Tristan pulls out my chair like it’s expected.
And then they make me sit between them. The whispers settle into the room like background music.
Not cruel. Curious. Electric.
I keep my posture straight. Smile polite. Eat something I can’t taste.
Across the room, our coach’s eyes land on me.
Not angry.
Worse.
Concerned.
It hits like a hot poker under my ribs.
I stare down at my plate and remind myself:
I’m doing my job.
I’m training.
My grades are solid.
I’m allowed to have a little romance.
Right?
The thought doesn’t settle as easily as it should.
The night moves in small moments.
Hands at my back guiding me through crowds. Kane steady and warm. Tristan careful like proximity itself is a decision.
Fabric brushing fabric. Low music. Glassware clinking.
I catch them watching me when they think I won’t notice.
Kane’s gaze is appreciative. Grounded. Like he’s imagining real life.
Tristan’s is quieter. More dangerous. Like he’s remembering something only we share.
The first slow song starts and my pulse jumps before anyone asks.
Kane does.
Always first with the safe choice.
His hand finds my waist and my body recognizes the steadiness immediately. The way his muscles shift under my palm when we move. The warmth of him. The certainty.
“You’re overthinking,” he murmurs.
“I live there.”
He smiles into my hair.
