Faint. Elegant.
A reminder.
The gala.
The people waiting.
The war watching.
My jaw tightens slightly as reality crashes back. I straighten, adjusting my cuffs one last time before stepping toward her.
When I stop in front of her, the height difference feels…intentional.
Designed.
Like everything else about this situation.
I study her for a moment longer than necessary.
Then I say it.
“You look….” I pause, like I’m choosing the word carefully. “Striking.”
Her lips curve slightly at that.
It’s small—but real.
And I catch it.
Still, I don’t miss the tension beneath it.
The way her shoulders hold just a fraction too tight.
The way her breath isn’t entirely steady.
She’s calm. But nervous.
Before I can overthink it, I extend my hand again. “Dance with me.”
Her brows lift slightly, surprised. “Now?”
“Yes.”
A beat passes.
Then she places her hand in mine.
Soft. Warm.
Alive.
I pull her closer, my other hand settling at her waist as the faint music drifting up from the garden fills the room just enough to guide us.
We move slowly.
Deliberately.
No audience.
