"Exactly. So when you are, something's wrong." She tilts her head, her eyes searching my face. "What is it?"
"Nothing's wrong. Ten in a row. Whitfield likes my brief. Life is beautiful."
She studies my face for a second longer than I want, and I have to fight the urge to look away.
"Did you apply for law review?"
"Deadline's March fifteenth."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
She waits me out, her gaze steady, and the silence between us feels heavier than the noise of the party.
"I haven't decided," I say, the words tasting like a confession.
"Okay." She lets it go and turns toward Clara on her other side, but the weight of the unspoken stays with me.
Dante's stare cuts across the room and lands right on the press of her thigh against mine, a hot, possessive heat that brands straight through me. He's leaning against the archway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching with the same focused intensity he uses on the ice. His look settles between my shoulder blades and stays there, a constant pressure that makes my skin prickle.
I stretch my arm along the back of the couch, my forearm laid behind her along the cushion seam. Maya turns toward Clara. My hand hovers above the slope where her shoulder meets her neck. Her thigh stays warm against mine through denim. Dante watches the contact from across the room. Her heat against my thigh and the weight of his stare, hitting me from two directions at once, and my chest tightens with the push and pull of it.
My fingers move a fraction closer to her shoulder. Heat rises at the back of my neck, and my breath catches in my throat.
He pushes off the frame and walks toward Gio. He says something low until Gio nods, then his hand lands on Gio's shoulder before his path bends toward the couch, toward us, and my pulse picks up before he's halfway, a drumbeat under my ribs.
As he passes he looks down at her for three seconds while Maya's mid-sentence with Clara, face turned, the gray sweatshirt loose on her shoulders. Dante's stride slows half a step, and my stomach drops.
Then he keeps going, heading toward the stairs at the back of the room, and the muscle along my arm stays locked, tense.
"More people here than usual," Maya says, her voice pulling me back.
"Winning streak. Brings out the faithful."
"Mm." She takes a sip of her drink, her shoulder warm near my hand, and the simple contact makes my throat tight.
By one the party is breaking up, freshmen spilling out the door, the music dying and the house settling around us. Gio and Zoë leave first, his hand on her lower back. Adrian pulls Clara's jacket over her shoulders.
"Good piece tonight," he tells Maya on his way out.
Maya nods, a small, genuine smile touching her lips.
Declan and Talia slip out without announcing it.
Maya is the last, still tucked into the couch cushion when the rest are gone. She stands and stretches until her sweatshirt lifts again, the same narrow line of skin before it falls back, and my eyes fix on the doorframe because looking at her is too dangerous.
"I'm out," she says. "Early edit tomorrow."
"Text me when you're home."
"Yes, dad."
"Not your dad."
The three words sit between us, sharp and loaded. Maya's chin lifts a fraction, her eyes holding mine, her lips parting and closing before she swallows once, and I don't look away, can't look away.
"Call your mother," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
