He caught my reflection in the mirror, one brow lifted like he knew exactly what I was thinking. I forced myself to focus on the tablet, scrolling through notes that suddenly looked like gibberish.
He wasn’t just handsome — he was dangerous in that effortless, frustrating way some men are. The kind of man who didn’t try to draw attention but did, anyway. The kind who didn’t care if people liked him but somehow made it worse when they did.
“Almost done,” Mr. Han murmured, stepping back to inspect the hem.
Beckett looked over at me again. “Remind me why I agreed to this?”
“Because you owe me,” I said. “And because optics.”
He groaned. “You and your optics.”
I smiled despite myself. “Someone has to keep you from showing up in jeans.”
He grinned — that slow, dangerous grin that always looked a little like trouble.
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint your sponsors,” he said.
I rolled my eyes, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was too busy trying to ignore the warmth creeping up my neck.
By the time Mr. Han declared him finished, I’d looked at my tablet so long I forgot what I was supposed to be checking.
All I could think was how someone like Beckett Mason — loud, messy, infuriating — could look so devastatingly put together.
And how unfair it was that I was the one who had to notice.
My phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with Kyle’s name. I didn’t even think before I answered — muscle memory at this point.
“Hey, you,” I said, trying to sound light, normal. “Just a reminder — you need to schedule your fitting for the gala.”
There was noise in the background — whistles, shoes squeaking on the floor, the sound of the Storm’s practice in full swing.
“Yeah, I haven’t had time,” he said, voice rushed. “I’ve got two more drills and film review tonight. I’ll figure it out.”
“It’s next week, Kyle.”
“I know, babe. I’m just trying to stay sharp. You get it.”
I did. That was the problem.
“I do,” I said softly. “I just… wish you’d slow down once in a while.”
A pause. Then, his voice — steady, focused, the same tone he used when talking about game footage or upcoming matches. “I can’t right now. Not with scouts watching. You understand.”
There it was again — that word. Understand.
I forced a smile he couldn’t see. “Yeah. I understand.”
We hung up, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before. I stared at the dress racks lined neatly behind me — silk, satin, lace. Everything perfect, everything prepared. Everything that wasn’t me.
You always understand. Even when it hurts.
It wasn’t anger I felt — not really. Just this quiet ache that never seemed to go away. Like being proud of him and lonely for him at the same time.
I tucked my phone away and turned back toward the fitting platform.
Beckett was watching me in the mirror.
He didn’t say anything, and I was glad he didn't. His reflection met mine, eyes steady, unreadable. The noise of the shop — the snip of scissors, the rustle of fabric — faded until there was only the hum of the lights and the sound of my pulse.
