Measured.
“Volleyball,” he said, nodding at my calves.
“Yep.”
He laughed.
Low. Easy. Real.
“You’re the freshman from Connecticut, right?”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m from Westerly, Rhode Island. Went to prep school in Connecticut.”
“Yeah, I remember reading that on the athletics Insta.”
“You stalking me?”
“Research,” he corrected.
The music shifted. Something slow and heavy and deliberately provocative.
People were already pairing off. Bodies closer. Shadows longer.
Kane didn’t crowd me.
Didn’t touch me.
Just stood there like he had nowhere better to be.
“You don’t look impressed,” he observed.
“I’m not.”
“Good,” he said. “Impressed is boring.”
That’s when I looked at him differently.
Because most guys at that party were already drunk on attention.
Kane was sober in it.
Controlled.
We danced later.
Not grinding. Not sloppy.
Just close enough to feel the heat.
Close enough that when his hand slid to my waist, it felt intentional.
Not entitled.
He leaned down near my ear.
“You’re hard to read.”
“Good.”
