I lift my gaze to the upper level.
Low couches sit beneath softer lighting, shadows stretching longer up there and moving slower than the floor below. A glass railing frames the space, reflective enough to distort movement, like everything is happening a half second behind reality.
And Elliot sits at the center of it.
He leans back against a wide couch, one arm stretched across the backrest like he owns the room. Drinks sit untouched in front of him. Two men flank him, both too still and too aware for this kind of setting.
I feel Brooke stiffen beside me the second my focus locks.
She follows my line of sight, her eyes narrowing as she finds him.
“That’s him,” she says under her breath.
Elliot leans forward slightly and says something to the man on his right, his gaze drifting over the floor out of habit.
Then he sees her.
Recognition hits clean and immediate, and his posture tightens just enough to give it away.
Brooke doesn't look away. She holds his stare from across the club, her chin lifted and her expression stripped down to nothing. The wig softens her features and blurs the edges, but it doesn't hide what matters.
She wants him to know. She wants him to remember.
Elliot leans back again, and smiles.
That is when it clicks.
Not just him.
I drag my attention off Elliot and start scanning the room.
Movement at the bar to the left catches my eye. A man leans against it with a drink in his hand, his posture loose like he doesn't have a reason to be there.
But I recognize him.
Diego.
Across the floor, closer to the dance crowd, another one stands just outside the shifting lights. He isn't dancing or drinking. He is watching.
Jackson.
My pulse shifts.
I look again.
They aren't together.
They are placed.
Brooke’s fingers brush mine for half a second.
Then she speaks, low.
“Three o’clock.”
I follow her line of sight.
A woman stands near the railing on the opposite side of the room, angled just enough to watch the floor without drawing attention to herself.
