And again.
And again.
Six months of late nights and quiet mornings and whispered conversations in the dark. Six months of stolen time and careful exits and doors that always closed just a little too fast behindhim. Six months of something that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Except it does. Especially now. I swallow hard, forcing my attention back to the mirror as my fingers adjust the bowtie one last time.
Get it together, Stark.
Tonight is different. Tonight is everything. A slow breath fills my lungs, steadying the tremor in my hands. He said he was ready. I can still hear his voice from that afternoon, softer than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m done hiding, Spence.”
I’d gone still when he said it, heart pounding so hard I thought he’d hear it. “What do you mean?” I’d asked, even though I already knew.
He’d smiled at me, nervous, but sure. “I’m bringing you to the gala. As my date.” My stomach flips at the memory. The Hale Foundation Gala. His family’s big annual event. He’s inviting me into his world, where the biggest names in society will be. Where he’s going totell them.
About him.
About me.
Aboutus.
“Okay,” I murmur to myself, voice low in the empty room. “You’ve got this.” I step back, checking the full look one more time. It’s…good. More than good. I look like I belong in a room like that. Like I belong at his side. Hell, I’m even starting to feel like I belong at his side.
Me. The kid who people don’t stick around for.
The thought sends a quiet, dangerous kind of hope curling through my chest. I glance at my phone on the desk.
6:05.
He said he’d be here at six, but he’s probably running late. I nod to myself, grabbing my jacket and slipping it on, smoothing the lapels as I start pacing the small space of the room. Back and forth on repeat. My gaze keeps darting to the phone.
6:12.
I check it. No texts or missed calls. “Traffic,” I mutter. “Or—something.” His apartment is a good fifteen minutes from my dorm. He could have gotten delayed or practice went late. He’ll text. He always texts. I pace faster.
6:23.
Still nothing. A flicker of unease creeps in, threading through the excitement. I grab my phone, thumb hovering over his name before I tap it.You close?The message sends. Three dots don’t appear. I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair and immediately fixing it again. “Relax,” I say under my breath. “He said he’s coming.”
6:31.
I call. No answer. I send another text.Everything okay?This time I don’t even pretend I’m not staring at the screen.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Nothing.
By the time it hits 6:45, my stomach is in knots. I call again with the same result. This isn’t like him. It’s really not. He might be secretive, careful, sometimes frustratingly distant when it comes to anything outside these walls—but with me? He shows up.
Always.
My gaze drifts to the mini fridge. To the small, clear container inside. I walk over slowly, opening it and pulling it out. The boutonnière is perfect. White, delicate, carefully arranged. I’d stood in that tiny florist shop for twenty minutes debating it, ignoring the price tag until I decided it mattered.
Because tonight mattered.
Becausehemattered.
I feel a little stupid. I don’t even know if people wear boutonnières to something like this. But I didn’t get to go toprom, so I figured why not? I run my thumb lightly over the petals, my nerves crawling up my throat.
