It isn’t meant to sting. It’s simply true.
He quietly absorbs that.
I don’t explain everything about the center—not the funding battles, not the background checks, not the way we tightened policies after a couple of boys used what they learned in the ring to settle street scores. Not tonight. Tonight isn’t about opening every door.
“It matters to me,” I say simply.
“I can see that,” he says.
The tension that followed us from last night hasn’t disappeared, but it’s no longer crackling. It’s sitting between us like an unanswered question.
He glances down at my dress. “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”
I almost smile. Almost. “No, I’ve got a change backstage.”
His jaw tightens slightly. Not anger. Not quite discomfort, either. Awareness. I shift the energy before it drifts back into that tight space.
“Want to grab dinner before things get busy?” I ask. “We’ve got time. I can show you around backstage when we get back.”
The invitation hangs there.
I’m not chasing him. I’m not withdrawing either. I’mstanding still, letting him decide whether he’s stepping toward me or staying where he is.
Last night, he held back.
Tonight, I’m watching to see if he still will.
CHAPTER NINE
ANDI
This restaurant was a terrible idea.
The lighting is low and intimate, the kind that makes everything feel closer than it should. The tables are designed for couples to sit side by side, leaning into each other over shared plates, not across from each other like we are now. Somehow, that makes it worse. Sitting across from him feels like we’re forcing distance in a place clearly designed to eliminate it.
It feels like we’re pretending at something we’re not allowedto name.
That’s what he is. My friend. He confirmed it for me last night, loud enough for me to hear it, whether he intended me to hear it or not.
Part of me hoped he’d say he couldn’t do the act tonight. That he’d suddenly have training or a last-minute obligation that would create space between us. Because seeing him and wanting more is exhausting. But not seeing him at all would be worse, and I’m honest enough with myself to admit it.
So here we are.
And I’m in deeper than I ever intended to be.
Our waitress is not helping matters.
She has barely looked at me since we sat down. Her attention has been entirely on Luke—laughing too hard, lingering too long, refilling his drink even though it’s still half full. By the third trip to our table, she slips a folded note beside his plate, as if she’s on some secret mission and expects applause for her bravery.
I pick it up before he can.
“How sweet,” I say, smiling in a way that seems polite but carries a sharp edge. “Bless your heart.”
She flushes and retreats quickly, and I don’t even feel badabout it.
Luke watches the whole thing unfold with a trace of amusement he’s trying and failing to hide. “Something wrong, Andi?”
I smooth the note between my fingers, then hold it out to him. “No. She’s just persistent and rude. She doesn’t know who I am to you. Here you go.”
