At the table, Kane's gaze finds mine immediately, warm and knowing, a small smile playing on his lips. "You promised me the “first and last dance,” he says, his voice low and teasing, but there's an undercurrent of something deeper—invitation, maybe even a challenge.
He stands, offering his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me onto the dance floor. His touch is steady, his palm warm against mine as he guides us through the swaying couples, his other hand resting lightly on the small of my back. We move in sync,not rushed, his body close enough that I feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle flex of muscle under his shirt as he leads.
But he doesn't stop at the dance. With a gentle nudge, he works us toward the balcony doors, the music fading behind us as cool night air beckons. We slip outside, the door clicking shut, sealing us in a private world of shadows and stars.
When I step away from the dance, my heart is racing too fast.
I don’t know what that means—whether it's from Tristan's storm or the quiet promise in Kane's eyes.
The balcony feels like another world, away from the prying gazes and the weight of expectations.
Night air cool against my overheated skin, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the gardens below. Palm trees swaying slowly like they’re keeping a secret, their fronds whispering in the breeze. Tiny lights from the building behind us reflecting in the glass doors, casting a soft, ethereal glow.
And fireflies—actual fireflies—dancing in the dark like tiny sparks of magic.
For a second it feels unreal—like the universe leaned too hard into romance, conspiring to make this moment perfect.
Kane doesn’t crowd me. He stands close enough that I feel chosen without feeling cornered, his presence a comforting anchor rather than a cage. The space between us hums with possibility, his cologne—a clean, citrusy warmth—mingling with the night air.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, genuine, like he's truly checking in, not just filling the silence.
I nod. Lie. But he sees through it, his eyes searching mine with that quiet intensity.
His hand lifts to my cheek, thumb brushing once like he’s asking permission without words—slow, deliberate, the pad of his thumb rough yet tender against my skin, sending a gentle shiver down my neck.
I lean in, granting it.
His kiss is warm. Patient. Not an explosion of the senses like Tristan's, but a steady burn that builds like embers catching flame. His lips press to mine softly at first, tasting faintly of mint and the champagne we'd shared earlier—fresh, inviting, a flavor that makes me sigh into him. No urgent sweep of tongue, but a gentle parting, his exploring mine in lazy, unhurried strokes that coax rather than demand. It spreads heat through my chest in a way that feels just as dangerous for different reasons—safe, secure, like coming home to a fire on a cold night.
Desired. Wanted. Seen in the present, not tangled in the past. My body responds instinctively, a slow melt against him, the warmth pooling in my belly, radiating outward until my fingers curl slightly into his jacket before I realize it, feeling the solid plane of his chest beneath, the steady beat of his heart matching mine.
He smiles against my mouth—soft, relieved—and that reaction does something low and complicated inside me, a flutter that twists into ache, making my thighs press together just a fraction, savoring the security of it all.
Two different truths. Two different feelings. Both real.
That’s the problem.
When we walk back inside, the hum is louder. Not whispers anymore. Recognition. Narrative forming.
I catch fragments: “…both of them…” “…did you see…” “…no way…”
My stomach drops, a cold counterpoint to the lingering warmth on my lips.
At the table, Tristan’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Kane exhales through his nose. They hear it too.
I didn’t come here for this. I came here to celebrate a season. To feel normal for one night. To exist without being reduced to who I might choose.
Across the room, coach looks at me again. And I feel that heat—embarrassment, pressure, fear that something simple just became complicated.
I fold my hands in my lap so no one sees them shake.
I am allowed to live. I am allowed to feel. I am allowed to be young.
But sitting between them, under candlelight and speculation, I realize something I didn’t expect:
Romance is easy.
Reputation is fragile.
