At some point, his boot brushes mine under the table.
He doesn’t move it.
Neither do I.
The contact lingers, light but steady, awareness building with every second we don’t acknowledge it.
“You always do that,” he murmurs after a while.
“Do what?”
“Get this look on your face when you’re thinkin’ too much.”
“I’m not…”
His fingers brush my wrist, slow, deliberate.
“You are.”
My pulse stutters under his touch.
“And what if I am?” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my lips, then back up.
“Then I’d say you don’t need to tonight.”
The space between us shifts.
Thickens.
And then the first notes drift through the air.
Soft. Familiar.
My head turns toward the stage instantly.
No way.
The melody builds, wrapping around the room, and something inside me lights up.
“Dex…”
He’s already smiling.
“I heard you listen to her every day,” he says quietly. “Figured you were a fan.”
I turn back.
And there she is.
Lily Rhodes.
Her voice fills the theater, warm and raw, better than anything through headphones, the lyrics settling deeper now that they’re real.
My chest tightens.
My hand finds his without thinking, fingers curling into his. He laces them together instantly.
