He flirted with Jacob too by leaning in, laughing, letting himself be pulled into the rhythm. It was easier than thinking about Maurice and Billy. Easier than wondering what Maurice wanted.
By the time another song started, Finn had danced with a handful of people—Caleb, Jacob, two strangers whose names he didn’t catch. There wasn’t a single minute he stood alone.
But even while he moved, even while he played, even while he pretended he was fine… his eyes kept drifting back to Maurice. And every time, it hurt a little more.
Across the room, Theo was dancing with Gage, both of them laughing as if they were having the time of their lives. Finn caught Gage’s eye once—just once—and his smile went warm and interested.
When the song ended, Caleb squeezed Finn’s waist before letting go. “You’re fun when you’re annoyed,” he teased.
Finn rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it.
Jacob appeared almost immediately, stepping into Finn’s space with a calm confidence. “My turn again?” Jacob asked, offering his hand.
Finn didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
They started dancing, and Jacob leaned in close, voice low. “You look hot tonight.”
Finn smirked. “I know.”
A delighted laugh escaped Jacob, and a quick spark of pleasure lit through Finn in response. He let himself flirt—really flirt—because why not? Maurice was still having a conversationacross the room with Billy, and Finn would not stand around looking pathetic.
Soon after, in the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Maurice and David now—off to the side, drinking and talking. Maurice wasn’t dancing anymore, but he wasn’t looking Finn’s way either. That stung more than Finn wanted to admit. So he kept moving. Kept dancing. Kept flirting.
One song bled into another, and Finn didn’t stand alone for even a minute. People kept pulling him in—mostly strangers who liked the way he moved. The Dance Car swayed with the train, lights flashing, music thumping through the floorboards, bodies brushing past him in every direction.
But no matter who he danced with, no matter who flirted with him… His eyes kept drifting back to Maurice.
And every time, it hurt just a little more. He wanted to leave the dance. And then, suddenly, Maurice looked up.
Their gazes collided across the dance floor. Maurice’s entire expression shifted—brightening instantly, as if Finn had just walked in and flipped on a light inside him. Billy, who had returned to Maurice, kept talking, oblivious, but Maurice wasn’t looking at him anymore. Finn’s chest loosened, breath catching in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.
Maurice stepped away from Billy, weaving through the crowd until he reached Finn. He said nothing at first—just held out a hand, palm open, eyes warm and sure. An invitation. A claim. A promise.
Finn didn’t hesitate. He slipped his hand into Maurice’s, heat shooting up his arm.
Maurice tugged him onto the dance floor, pulling him close enough that the bass thrummed through both their chests. Finn’s heart raced, nerves buzzing, but the second Maurice’s hands settled on his hips, everything inside him steadied.
He leaned in, flirting without even trying—smiling up at Maurice, brushing their shoulders together, letting the music guide him.
The jealousy had finally eased. The music blurred into a warm pulse around him. And for the first time all night, Finn let himself move—let himself want—let himself be wanted. The night was just getting started.
Maurice leaned in, breath brushing Finn’s ear. “This is not working,” he whispered.
The words didn’t land gently. They slammed into Finn like a sudden drop in altitude.
For a second, Finn didn’t understand. The music warped, stretching thin and metallic, like someone had turned the bass into a heartbeat he couldn’t keep up with. His breath hitched. His chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.
He blinked at Maurice, waiting for… something. A smile. A clarification. A joke. Anything.
But Maurice was still talking—saying something else, something Finn couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. The lights strobed too bright. The room tilted. Finn opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His throat locked up, words stuck somewhere behind the panic rising like a wave.
He tried again—just a breath, a half-formed “What?”—but the sound died before it reached the air.
All he could hear wasit was not working.
Not working.
Not working.
