He looked away first, jaw tight, but the feeling stayed. Relief. Gratitude. And underneath it, something warmer, something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. Not just that she’d helped him sound human in a press room. That she’d seen him—really seen him—and hadn’t walked away.
* * *
By the time the team took over the rooftop bar in South Beach that night, the knot in his shoulders—the one that had lived there for months—had finally started to loosen. Neon lights sliced through the dark, bass thumped hard enough to rattle glasses, champagne popped like gunfire.
Lucas let the drinks come. One became three. The day hadn’t felt like a fight he was losing.
He spotted Mia near the edge of the room, half in shadow, standing a few feet away from the bar rather than claiming it. A glass of water sat untouched in her hand, her posture angled toward the exit more than the dance floor. She looked out of place—too still, too watchful in the middle of all that chaos.
He pushed through the crowd until he reached her.
“Come on,” he said, voice gravelly from yelling over the music, close enough she had to tilt her head up. “Come and dance.”
She met his eyes, then flicked them toward the dance floor where bodies moved in a sweaty tangle. “I don’t do this scene.”
“Okay.” He stepped closer instead, invading just enough to make her breath hitch. “Then at least stand somewhere better than the emergency exit.”
Before she could argue, he guided her back a step until her spine met the edge of the bar—solid, grounded, no longer hovering at the perimeter. Close enough to the dance floor to feel the bass under her skin. Far enough to keep distance.
“Stay here,” he said quietly. “Don’t run away just yet.”
He threw himself back onto the floor. The alcohol made everything loose, reckless. A blonde in a silver dress pressed against him first—hips rolling slow and deliberate, hands sliding up his chest. He matched her rhythm, hands low on her waist, pulling her in until there was no space left. She laughed into his neck; he barely heard it over the music. Another woman slipped in behind him, sandwiching him, fingers trailing down his spine. He let it happen—grinded back, let their bodies slide and catch, sweat and perfume and heat everywhere.
He told himself it was easy. Mindless. The release he’d needed after months of being wound tight.
But every few seconds his eyes found her.
Mia hadn’t moved from her spot near the bar. Water untouched, watching. Not glaring, not judging—just watching. Her expression was still, almost clinical, but her eyes were dark, fixed. Heat hit him harder than the tequila. His stomach twisted—arousal, guilt, something sharper he couldn’t name.
He pulled the blonde closer, rolled his hips harder, tried to lose himself in it. But the more he moved, the more aware he became of Mia’s gaze like a physical touch on his skin. Every grind, every forced laugh, felt performed. Wrong. His pulse kicked up—not from the women, but from her.
He glanced back again. She was still there. Unblinking.
Something snapped. He disentangled himself mid-beat—muttered an excuse to the women, ignored their protests—and cut straight toward the bar.
He stopped in front of her, breathing hard, sweat slick on his brow and the back of his neck, shirt clinging to his chest in damp patches. The scent of other women’s perfume clung to him—sweet, cloying, wrong now in a way it hadn’t been five minutes ago.
“You’re still here,” he said. His voice came out rough, scraped raw from shouting over the music.
“So are you.” Quiet. Steady. Too fucking steady.
He braced one hand on the bar beside her, caging her in without touching. Close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.
“You’ve been watching,” he said.
Her gaze flicked down to his mouth—just half a second—then back up. “Hard not to.”
The admission landed like a punch. His blood roared, heat surging low and fast. He felt it everywhere: in his throat, his chest, between his legs.
He leaned in, voice dropping low enough that only she could hear it over the thump of the bass. “Does it bother you?”
She set her glass down. The movement was deliberate, controlled. Her eyes never left his.
“I’m going back to the hotel.”
Before he could answer—before he could even decide whether to reach for her wrist, to pull her back, to say something stupid and honest—she slipped past him. Her shoulder brushed his chest, light but deliberate, the contact sending a jolt straightthrough him, electric and sharp.
He watched her disappear into the crowd—dark hair catching the neon, posture still straight, still composed even as she walked away from him. The knot in his gut twisted tighter, a mix of frustration, want, and something uncomfortably close to regret.
