My back meets the wall, though I don’t remember stepping back. His other hand lifts, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear, trailing lower—his touch featherlight but leaving heat in its wake.
“You look exquisite tonight.” His voice is quiet, a murmur meant just for me.
“Thanks,” I manage, but it comes out breathless.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and suddenly I'm remembering everything - his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, the way he'd make me fall apart. His leg slides between mine, and I have to bite back a gasp. His fingersbrush the kunzite pendant at my throat, a reminder of how well he sees me, how much he notices.
I don't know why I put it on tonight. Or maybe I do, but I've been pretending I hadn't thought abouthimwhen I clasped it around my neck. Of course he noticed it.
“Happy birthday.” His breath grazes my ear, his fingers drifting up my thigh, slow enough to make me ache.
We stand frozen in this moment, his body caging mine against the wall, neither of us speaking. The bass from the club pulses through us like a shared heartbeat. One move - forward or back - could change everything.
His fingers flex on my thigh, and I can’t help the small sound that escapes me. His eyes darken further.
“Tara.” My name is a low rasp. A warning. An invitation.
We’re nothing. We’ve always beennothing.We both know that. But with his hands on me and the taste of his name on my tongue, I can’t seem to remember why that ever mattered.
“Alfie, I—” My palm finds his chest, his heartbeat hammering beneath my fingertips. “What are we even fighting about? I’m so?—”
A burst of drunken laughter shatters the moment. Three girls stumble down the hallway, arms linked, nearly crashing into us.
“Oops!” One giggles, her vodka cranberry sloshing dangerously close to my dress. “Sorry! Just trying to— oh my god, were we interrupting something?”
Alfie steps back, his hand falling from my thigh. The sudden absence of his touch leaves me cold.
“No,” he says, voice clipped. “You weren’t.”
The girls exchange knowing looks, barely containingtheir giggles as they weave past us toward the bathroom. One of them stage-whispers, “Get it, girl!” as they pass.
The spell is broken. Alfie runs a hand through his hair, not quite meeting my eyes.
“I should—” He gestures vaguely toward the main room.
“Yeah,” I say, though everything in me screams to pull him back. “Me too.”
I duck into the bathroom, finding one of the girls from the hallway applying lipstick in the mirror. Her friends occupy the stalls, their giggles echoing off the tiles.
“Oh my God,” she gushes, lipstick frozen halfway to her mouth. “Your boyfriend is seriously hot.”
“Phe!” A voice squeaks from one of the stalls. “You can’t just say that to someone!”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I mutter, instantly regretting the admission.
“Oh.” Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches in the mirror. “In that case, maybe I’ll go say hi.” She resumes applying her lipstick with renewed interest.
“Phoebe!” her friend scolds. “Could you be any more inappropriate?”
Something possessive and primal rises in my chest. Before I can stop myself, I’m sliding one of my rings to my left hand, holding it up casually as I fix my hair. “Actually, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my fiancé.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widen comically in the mirror. “God, I’m so sorry! Congratulations!”
“Thanks.” I flash her a sweet smile, slipping into an empty stall. “And yeah, he is hot, isn’t he?”
The petty satisfaction warms me more than any shot has all night. Even if it is completely ridiculous.
I weave through the crowd, still buzzed from the last round of shots. The music is loud, the lights flashing over swaying bodies. Just as I pass the bar, a guy steps into my space.
