“You okay?” he asked, voice low enough to barely reach me.
I nodded automatically, but my throat was tight. “Just…” I stopped, swallowing hard. “Tired of pretending I’m not.”
The words hung there, heavier than I intended.
It wasn’t just about the gala. It wasn’t even about Kyle. It was about everything—years of holding it together, smiling through cracks, carrying too much for too long. And maybe he knew that, because he didn’t try to fix it. He just looked at me, steady and quiet, like I’d said something sacred.
Something in the air shifted then—thicker, warmer.
He moved closer, slow enough that I could have stepped back if I wanted to. I didn’t. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his collar, and for a ridiculous second, I wanted to fix it. Just to have something to do with my hands.
Instead, I stood there, realizing how close we were.
The lamplight caught in his eyes, turning them the color of burnt amber. He looked tired too—not from the event, but from carrying the kind of weight no one else saw.
“Ellery,” he said softly, like he was warning me—or maybe himself.
I almost laughed, because what could he possibly warn me about that I hadn’t already walked into willingly?
You knew what this was the second you followed him upstairs.
Still, I whispered, “I know.”
He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face, fingers barely grazing my skin. That single touch was enough to undo me. I could feel my pulse everywhere—in my wrists, in my throat, in the space between us that wasn’t space anymore.
I’d spent so long being careful. But in that moment, under that low light, I didn’t want careful. I wanted real.
So I stepped closer.
Neither of us said another word. We didn’t need to. The quiet said everything: this wasn’t about fixing or saving. It was about finally letting something—someone—feel like home.
“You want something to drink?” He offered it so casually that it almost felt safe.
I hesitated. The words caught somewhere between manners and instinct. “I shouldn’t…”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Because it’s after midnight? Or because you think I only stock bad decisions?”
That almost made me laugh. “Both seem possible.”
He smirked, opening the fridge anyway. “Beer, ginger ale, water—dealer’s choice.”
“Water,” I said finally, because it was the only answer that didn’t feel like crossing another invisible line.
He handed me a glass, condensation already gathering around his fingers, and I followed him to the couch. The space between us felt deliberate—close enough to talk, far enough to breathe. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the window, the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty but expectant.
We sat there for a minute, pretending to be normal people with normal reasons to share a drink after an event. My gown pooled around my ankles; his tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked almost relaxed—until he broke the stillness.
“We leave tomorrow,” he said, voice quiet but even. “Two-week road trip.”
I glanced at him, trying to ignore the twist in my stomach. “I’ll finally sleep. Maybe.”
He smiled—soft, real. “You’ll work instead.”
I sighed, caught. “Guilty.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, and I couldn’t help smiling back. For a moment, it was easy. Like this—just talking, teasing—was something we’d always done.
Then he looked at me differently, like he was trying to memorize what I looked like sitting there under the lamplight. “I want to keep coming by the foundation when I’m back.”
