Page 3 of Duty Preserved

He looked at me. Focused, direct. He didn’t let go until I had my footing. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. My brain had shut down and left my body standing there pressed against a stranger.

Then he stepped back. Gently, like he was making sure I was steady before he let go. He dropped his hands. He stepped around me and kept moving. Through the crowd, through the bodies, gone.

I stood on the dance floor with my palms tingling and my brain trying to restart.

Alyson pulled me back into the music. I let her. We danced for another two songs, maybe three, and I tried to focus on her and Daniel and the bass rattling my ribs. But my eyes kept drifting.

There he was. He’d sat down alone at a high-top near the wall. He had a drink in front of him, and he was watching the room—eyes moving through the crowd, never landing anywhere for long. His hand came up to his ear for a second, then dropped back to his glass.

“Oh my God.” Alyson was beside me. She followed my gaze. “Is that the guy from the dance floor?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s sitting alone.”

“I can see that.”

“Go talk to him.”

“What? No. I just— He already— That was⁠—”

“Sarah.” She grabbed my shoulders. “That right there. That look on your face. That’s what I’ve been trying to get out of you all year. Now go over there before you lose your nerve.”

My heart was still pounding from the collision. My palms were still tingling. The last man I’d been with had been pretty thorough in explaining why I shouldn’t bother with moments like this.

“What would I even say? He’s probably French. I don’t speak French.”

“Then mime. Point at his drink. Do the international symbol for ‘you’re hot and I’d like to sit here.’”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now. Go.”

I looked at him across the room. He touched his ear again. Took a sip of his drink. His eyes swept past me without stopping.

“Go.” Alyson gave me a gentle push. “The worst thing that happens is you come back here and we drink about it.”

I went. I didn’t know why I went. Every reasonable part of my brain was screaming at me to stay on the dance floor and let the moment die a quiet death. But my feet were moving and the tequila was doing the thinking and the memory of his hands on my waist was louder than the screaming.

He saw me coming. I could tell because his eyes stopped their sweep, landed on me, and stayed. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He just watched me approach with an expression I couldn’t read.

“Hi.” I arrived at his table and immediately forgot every other word in the English language. Then remembered he probably didn’t speak it. “Um…parlez-vous⁠—”

“English is fine.”

American. The relief almost knocked me sideways. “Oh, thank God. My French is terrible. I’m the one who— I fell into you. On the dance floor. A few minutes ago.”

“I remember.”

Two words. Not unfriendly. Just… sparse. Like he was rationing them.

“Can I buy you a drink? As an apology for almost knocking you over.”

He lifted the glass in front of him. Still half full. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” I stood there. He looked at me, then his eyes drifted past me toward the crowd. His hand went to his ear again—quick, subtle, like he was adjusting an earring he wasn’t wearing.

“I’m Sarah,” I said, because the silence was killing me.