Page 12

MILLIE

"What do we say?" Harper calls out from her room, her voice carrying down the hallway. "If someone ask how we met?"

Her door's cracked open just enough that I catch flashes of movement—her pacing back and forth, probably giving the final touches to her hair like she said earlier.

Or panicking. Honestly, with Harper, it could go either way.

I stand in front of the mirror by the entryway, fiddling with my tie for the third time tonight.

It's too tight. Then too loose. Then perfect, until I look at it again and suddenly it's wrong.

Fake girlfriend nerves, apparently, are just as real as real ones.

I smirk to myself. "I guess we just tell them the truth. You insulted me right before a game and I told you to fuck off."

From her room, there's a loud, exaggerated groan. I can practically feel her rolling her eyes without even seeing her, and it makes me grin wider, a warmth unfurling low in my chest. "Or," I call out, voice lighter, "we could say we met through Audrey. Normal. Boring. Safe."

There's a beat of quiet, filled only by the occasional swish of fabric.

I shift on my feet, adjusting my jacket sleeves.

The suit's dark charcoal with a slight sheen under the lights—subtle but sharp.

Audrey helped me pick it out last year and I've been saving it for something important.

Guess pretending to be in love qualifies.

"Or," I continue, tugging once more at my tie, "you could tell people you knew Audrey was my best friend, and you became impossibly obsessed with me. Begged her for my number. I rejected you—obviously—but you followed me around until I finally gave in."

Her laugh rings out, bright and real, and it tugs a smile right out of me without even trying. God, that sound. I swear it makes everything heavy in the world gets a little bit lighter for a second.

"So much for a realistic story," she teases.

"I don't know," I shrug, still facing the mirror. "I think most people would buy it—"

The words catch somewhere in my throat as her door swings open and she steps out. My reflection disappears. Everything disappears, except her. "What do you think?"

The first thing I notice are her shoes—white strappy heels, delicate and almost criminal against the hardwood floor.

Red-painted toes peek out, and then my eyes trail upward, helpless.

Sun-kissed legs, endless and unfair. The black satin of her dress hugs her hips and falls away in a high slit that reveals even more skin with every step she takes toward me.

The fabric clings to her like it was made just for her body—elegant, shimmering, devastating. One strap crosses over her shoulder, leaving the other bare, and it makes me want to trace the line of her collarbone with my mouth— wait, what?

She's...

She's unreal. I forget how to breathe. How to move. How to think.

Harper stands there, hands smoothing down the sides of her dress, looking at me with those big grey eyes—bright and stormy—and she tilts her head slightly when I don't say anything.

"Amelia," she asks again, voice softer now, almost shy.

"Hmm?"

"I asked, what do you think?"

I swallow thickly, yanking my gaze up from her body like I've been burned.

Jesus Christ, Bennett, get it together.

I stand straighter smoothing down the front of my jacket with shaky fingers I hope she doesn't notice. "You look..." I clear my throat. "You look beautiful, Harps."

Her cheeks flush a delicate pink, blooming slow and lovely across her skin. She bites her bottom lip for a second, then smiles, all soft and radiant. "You look beautiful too," she says, almost too quietly.

Something in my chest tightens, like a fist closing around my ribs. Her hair's been left in soft waves tonight, the strands curling just enough to look effortless, like she rolled out of bed looking that good. A small clip tucks one side back, exposing the graceful curve of her neck.

Harper clears her throat, glancing down at her hands. "So... we just show up and... act, right?"

"Right," I say, voice low, stepping closer without really thinking about it.

She tenses slightly when I stop in front of her, so close I can see the way her chest rises and falls, quick and shallow. Her perfume is something sweet and citrusy—hers—and it makes my head spin.

I reach out, slow and careful, fingers brushing a stray piece of hair away from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear.

The second I touch her, Harper sucks in a tiny breath—sharp, startled—and it punches straight through me, hot and dangerous.

Her wide grey eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, everything else disappears.

The world goes quiet. It's just her and me, standing in the soft light of our living room, the air between us charged like the moment before a summer storm.

God, she's beautiful.

And fuck, she's close.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, voice breaking like she's not sure if she wants to move forward or backward.

I don't answer right away.

Instead, I let my thumb trail lightly—so lightly—along her jawline, barely a whisper of contact.

Her skin is warm under my touch, and I swear I can feel the way her heart kicks up, a stuttering rhythm that mirrors my own.

A slow smile curves at my mouth. The kind of smile I know gets me into trouble. The kind of smile that's instinct when it comes to her.

"You can't get flustered every time I get near you, baby," I murmur, voice dipping low, threading teasing and something heavier underneath it.

Her lips part, pink and soft and stunned.

The flush on her cheeks deepens, blooming up her neck like a secret she can't hide fast enough.

"I'm not—" she starts to argue, her voice breathy and uneven.

I lean in, just enough that she goes quiet instantly, her eyes wide, lips inches from mine.

I just stay there for a second, letting her feel it—the closeness, the weight of it—before pulling back with a small, satisfied tilt of my head.

"Yes, you are," I say quietly, amusement flickering through my chest even as my heart slams against my ribs like a battering ram.

Harper stands frozen for half a second longer, looking at me like she's trying to memorize every line of my face.

And maybe I'm doing the same.

She finally blinks, a shaky breath escaping her as she tries to gather herself. She tugs at the hem of her dress, clearly needing something to do with her hands.

"You're evil," she mutters under her breath.

I chuckle, low and easy. "You have no idea."

────────── ???? ──────────

"Are you ready?" I ask her as our car rolls to a stop outside the swanky hotel.

I try to keep my voice steady, casual, but it feels a little like I'm asking myself the same thing.

Am I ready to give the world what they want? A softer version of me? A sanitized, smiling version of myself to make up for the crime of defending my own damn existence? Am I ready to stand under a thousand flashing lights, pretending a girl who's too good, too kind, too real belongs to me?

I'm not sure. I'm not sure about any of this.

I haven't let anyone into this part of my life in years. Personal was personal. Professional was professional.

That's how my moms raised me. It's how they survived it, how they protected me and my sisters growing up under the relentless glare of public life.

Paparazzi were handled. Boundaries were defended.

Nobody got to mess with a Bennett and walk away without consequences.

And yet here I am. About to offer Harper up like a peace treaty. Letting the world think they have a piece of me again.

Across the car, she lets out a slow, nervous breath, fogging up the back window slightly as her eyes stay glued to the hoard of photographers just beyond the glass.

"Yeah, I think so," she says quietly, her voice breathy, but sure. I hesitate, feeling something tight and sharp coil inside my chest.

I reach for her gaze, needing to see her. "Are you sure?" I murmur, low so no one outside can hear.

Harper turns to me, offering the softest smile.

It's small but steady, and somehow it hits harder than any pep talk could.

"This is nothing, Millie," she says with a little shrug.

"Sure, there'll be a few headlines, maybe my name gets out there.

But who cares? It'll pass. It always does. People move on."

I study her for a second longer. How can she be so calm when all I want to do is wrap her up and hide her from all of it? The noise. The cameras. The vultures pretending to be people.

Before I can second-guess myself again, my door swings open.

Flashbulbs explode, painting the night sky white.

My name is shouted like a battle cry. But I keep my focus narrow, deliberate.

One step at a time.

I step out, rebuttoning my suit jacket with a sharp flick of my wrist, and circle the car to her side.

The doorman moves to open it, but I cut him off with a shake of my head. "I've got it," I say, low and firm.

He steps back, hands clasped behind his back. And I pause for a beat, palm resting on the car door, gathering myself. One more breath.

Then I crack the door open just enough to see her again.

Sitting there with a nervous but eager smile curling those heart-shaped lips. Her grey eyes catching gold in the hotel lights— sparkle with something that makes my heart stutter painfully against my ribs.

I offer my hand, and she places hers in mine without hesitation.

Soft, warm, trusting. Her white heel touches the ground first, then the long, endless line of her bare leg, the slit in her dress revealing just enough to drive me absolutely insane.

And then she stands — unfolding from the car like something out of a daydream I didn't even know I was having.

Jesus.

The flashes go wild. Shouts grow louder. But all I can do is look at her, stunned stupid.

Because with how perfect she looks tonight, not a single soul in this crowd is going to believe she's mine. Even if that's exactly what we're here to sell.

Her fingers tighten slightly in mine, grounding me. I force my legs to move, stepping onto the carpet leading toward the grand hotel entrance. She walks half a step closer than necessary, brushing my arm with hers. It feels deliberate. Like she knows exactly what she's doing.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She's smiling, polished, perfect. But there's a small mischief tucked behind it — like she's daring me to play along.

When the first photographer shouts, "Millie! Over here! Who's your date?" Harper just tightens her hold a little more, turning that blinding smile toward the cameras like she was born for this.

I lean down just a fraction, so the next photo catches me smiling into her hair like I'm wrecked for her. "You're good at this," I murmur under my breath, pretending to adjust the cuff of her sleeve as we walk.

She laughs under her breath, barely moving her mouth. "I'm an excellent liar," she whispers, bumping my hip gently with hers.

The warmth of her seeps straight through my suit. A jolt of electricity shooting through me. I catch her eye again as we stop for a series of photos in front of the big event backdrop — the logos of sponsors, the team, the charity in crisp, sharp colors.

Harper tilts her face toward mine, lips parted like she's about to say something, and the world tilts slightly. Without thinking, I lift our joined hands up between us, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles — a slow, deliberate motion. The cameras go wild.

Harper's eyes widen, just for a second, her breath hitching audibly enough that I catch it. The photographers roar for more. She flushes beautifully under the lights, cheeks pink, lips parting like she might say something — but she doesn't.

"Millie! Who's your date?" someone screams through the flashing lights.

Then, they start piling over each other,

"Is this your girlfriend?"

"Can you confirm her name?"

"Millie, are you going to apologize to Alfred?"

"Are you here to make a statement tonight?"

"Are you finally admitting you crossed a line?"

My stomach knots instantly, tension snapping through my body like a taut wire.

I don't even have to look to know my jaw is locking tight, shoulders drawing back the way they always do when it feels like I'm about to be attacked.

I hate this.

The constant pulling, the expectation to smile and make nice when all I want to do is tell them all to go to hell.

I feel Harper shift beside me — small, almost imperceptible — but then her free hand moves, brushing lightly against the inside of my wrist where she's still holding my hand.

It's a soft, grounding touch. Gentle.

Intentional. Like she's telling me: I'm here.

Don't let them get to you. I don't look at her — I can't — but the simple pressure of her fingers eases the boiling anger just enough to keep me in check.

To remember the plan.

Without answering a single question, I turn, guiding Harper with me.

I make sure to angle my body just slightly toward hers, subtly blocking her from the worst of the flashes as we stride into the hotel, past the ropes, past the noise.

The second the doors close behind us, the chaos muffles.

I finally let out a breath I hadn't even realized I was holding.

"Sorry," I mutter low, mostly to myself.

Harper gives a soft, almost amused breath of a laugh. "For what?" she says, bumping my shoulder lightly with hers. "You were perfect."

The lobby is packed — players, executives, sponsors, a sea of black ties and ballgowns and glinting jewelry.

The air hums with quiet music, the soft clink of champagne glasses, the polite buzz of conversation.

I scan the crowd until I spot them — my team, a messy, chaotic group gathered around one of the open bars, already staking their claim on the space.

"Come on," I murmur, low, leaning in like it's natural — like it's easy to have my mouth this close to her ear.

Maybe it is.

Harper smiles up at me — that open, steady smile she gives so freely — and without hesitation, lets me guide her through the throng of people, our hands still loosely laced together.

My thumb brushes over her knuckles as we walk, an absent gesture that makes something hot and stupid twist in my chest. Just selling the act, I tell myself.

"BENNETT!" Jada Fields, our goalie, shout cuts through the buzz of the room, earning a few startled glances from nearby guests.

I roll my eyes affectionately. Harper startles slightly, then laughs, the sound pure and warm, like she finds the chaos endearing instead of overwhelming.

We reach the group, and there's immediate hooting, whistling, the playful, rowdy energy I know and love.

They look immaculate tonight — dresses and suits, hair done, makeup perfect — but underneath it, they're still the same reckless idiots who will throw themselves in front of a slapshot without blinking.

"Hey, girls," I smile and then I lift our joined hands a little like an announcement. "This is Harper, my girlfriend. Fake girlfriend," I remark because they know this is nothing but an act.

There's a beat of silence — and then, predictably, chaos.

"Fake?" Zoey scoffs, eyebrows arched high. "Sure, sure, that's why Bennett's looking at her like she hung the damn moon."

I glare at her — lightly, warningly — but Harper just laughs again, playing along without missing a beat.

"An honor," Harper says, pressing a hand to her chest in mock solemnity.

The team erupts in laughter.

God, she's good.

Too good.

Sliding into my world like she's always belonged here.

The girls pepper her with questions — where she's from, how she deals with my 'charming' personality, whether she's ready for the madhouse that is playoff season.

Harper answers them all easily, her social instincts perfect, her laugh light and infectious.

She fits.

She fits.

And something in my chest gives a painful, terrifying little tug.

After a while— I notice I keep touching her without thinking. A hand at her waist when someone jostles us too close. A brush of my knuckles along the back of her arm as I lean in to hear what Helena is saying. The light pressure of my fingers against her spine, just keeping her tethered to me.

Selling the act.

Right?

That's all.

Eventually, I catch Julian across the room — tall, broad-shouldered, familiar in a way that still anchors me when everything else feels too loud. Theo is beside him, ever the picture of calm, easygoing confidence.

I tug Harper closer to me, hand sliding down her arm, fingers twining with hers.

"Time to meet the bosses," I murmur against her hair.

She glances up at me, wide-eyed but smiling — a little thrill of nerves and excitement dancing over her features. But she just squeezes my hand back, steady and sure.

"Lead the way, Captain," she teases, voice soft and sure.

I swallow hard. The crowd shifts around us, a tide of silk and polished leather shoes, but Harper moves easily beside me, keeping pace without faltering. Her dress brushes against my leg every few steps, the faint whisper of satin against my suit making my pulse pick up for no goddamn reason.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.

She's beautiful tonight. Her hair soft around her face, that clip catching the light when she turns her head. Her skin glowing warm under the golden lights. Her smile, easy and generous, as she navigates the stares and glances we're already pulling.

I don't realize I'm staring until she catches me.

She tilts her head, amusement sparking in her eyes. "See something you like?"

I roll my eyes, squeezing her hand softly. "Shut up."

As soon as Theo spots us, his face lights up and he opens his arms wide. And even though I roll my eyes and pretend to be exasperated, my feet are already moving toward him.

That's just how it is with my family. With all of them.

We're huggers. No matter how grown I am.

No matter how tough I pretend to be. I fold myself into his arms, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of him — cologne and something warm, comforting.

His hold is firm, steady, and a part of me I didn't even realize was tense unknots itself.

"Hey, sweetie," Theo says, pulling back just enough to smile down at me, his hands still resting on my shoulders. His eyes flick to Harper, to our still-joined hands, and his grin widens into something downright smug. "And you must be Harper, right? A pleasure to meet you."

Harper, without missing a beat, dips her head respectfully. "Yes, sir. The pleasure is mine."

Theo chuckles, the sound rich and fond. "Please — just Theo," he corrects warmly, before motioning toward the man beside him. "And this is my husband Julian."

Julian steps forward, grinning. "Also her coach," he adds, shaking Harper's hand with an easy familiarity.

I watch Harper — the way she shifts her weight slightly, the way her shoulders stay relaxed even under the scrutiny of two men who mean the world to me. She's steady. Unflinching.

Effortless.

God, why does she have to be so good at this?

Harper raises her eyebrows, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, you're the reason she's been grumpy all week."

I choke on a laugh — one that Julian echoes with a deep, rumbling chuckle. "You could say that," he admits, completely unbothered. "But hey — you two look pretty good together."

His words hang heavy in the air between us — teasing, yes, but layered with something more. Something I can't quite name.

Theo snorts, rolling his eyes like the dramatics aren't worth his time. "I already called him every name in the book, baby Bennett," he says fondly, ruffling my hair with a deliberate messiness that has me batting his hand away.

"And Gracie's around here somewhere," Theo adds, glancing over the crowd. "If you see her, keep an eye out? There are way too many gross NHL boys sniffing around, and I'm this close to getting banned for murder."

I laugh, nodding. "Got it. Murder-free night. We'll find her."

I tug Harper a little closer by the hand — maybe a little possessively, maybe not — steering us away from the inevitable danger of Theo trying to embarrass me further.

"We're gonna go grab a drink," I call back over my shoulder.

"You're doing a good job, Millie," Julian calls after me, and I roll my eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in my head.

I lean down toward Harper, letting my hand skim lightly along her lower back in a touch that's just barely too intimate for friends — selling the illusion.

"You okay?" I murmur, close enough that my breath stirs a few loose strands of her hair.

She tilts her face up toward mine, that same steady smile playing at her mouth. "I'm good," she says simply, and then, teasing, "You?"

I laugh under my breath, helpless. We're only a few steps away from the bar when I hear it — her name, loud and unmistakable, cutting through the soft music and polite chatter of the gala.

"Harper!"

We both freeze instinctively, and Harper's head turns toward the sound. I follow her gaze automatically, my heart sinking as I spot a cluster of familiar faces across the room — the Vancouver Wolves. Lucas' team. Big names. Big personalities. Loud, loyal, reckless.

Harper's whole face lights up. Her shoulders straighten, her eyes spark, her laugh bubbles out so easily it hurts a little to watch.

She glances back at me — a quick, almost apologetic look — like she knows what she's about to do.

"I'll be right back," she says, voice soft, almost asking permission.

"Go," I manage, lifting my hand to release hers even though everything inside me tightens like a fist. I try for casual, try to look unbothered, but when her fingers brush lightly against the inside of my wrist in a lingering goodbye, my breath catches.

And then she's gone.

I stand there for a beat, feeling hollow and absurdly cold, before dragging myself toward the bar. The room feels louder now, brighter, harsher. Like everything beautiful just left with her.

I order something strong, barely caring what. When the glass lands in front of me, I grip it hard enough to feel the chill seep into my skin.

I don't mean to look for her.

I don't.

But I find her immediately — standing in the center of that crowd of Wolves, laughing, her head tipped back, that dark hair shining under the chandeliers. She's magnetic. Alive.

They orbit her like she's gravity.

And I hate it.

I hate how natural it is.

I hate how much I want to be the only one who gets to see her like that.

My jaw tightens when I spot a couple of the younger players inching closer, their eyes lingering too long, their smiles too wide. I take a sharp sip from my drink, the burn tracing a hot line down my throat.

Someone slides up beside me with the force of a small hurricane.

"There's my favorite cousin!"

I blink, startled, and turn to see Grace — tall, radiant, familiar — carrying two drinks precariously in one hand, grinning like she knows exactly what I'm thinking.

Her blonde hair is loose and wavy around her shoulders, her blue eyes practically glowing under the lights. She looks like every boy's dream and every father's nightmare.

I can't help it — I grin back.

"What's with the grumpy face, Mills?" she asks, dumping the two drinks on the bar and wiping her hands like they're dirty.

I raise an eyebrow.

"Not yours?"

She laughs. "Please. Some idiot tried to hand them to me. Like I'm that stupid." She jerks her chin at the bartender. "Toss them, please."

The bartender nods, taking them away. Grace leans her hip against the bar, studying me with way too much amusement.

"So," she says, voice lilting. "Wanna tell me why you look like you're five seconds away from going all Captain Protective on someone?"

I follow her gaze. Of course she's looking straight at Harper. Standing there. Laughing. Gorgeous. Untouchable.

The players — tall, cocky, stupid — lean in too close, too familiar, like they don't know she's supposed to be mine.

I take another swallow of my drink, jaw grinding.

"I'm fine," I lie smoothly, setting my glass down harder than necessary.

Grace hums under her breath, a sound that's half-amused, half-patient like she's dealing with a particularly stupid child. She bumps her shoulder into mine, playful but deliberate.

"So," she presses, eyebrows lifting, "who is she? She's the one you have to... what was it? Date?"

I sigh through my nose, tilting my head back and letting the ceiling lights blur for a second before answering.

"Fake date," I correct automatically. "And yeah. Harper. Audrey's friend. Photographer for the boys' team."

Grace makes a little pleased sound in her throat. "Ohhh. She's the one living with you now, right?"

"Yeah," I say, the word catching somewhere between my ribs.

"Is that why you're looking at the boys like you want to strangle them to death just for breathing the same air as her?" she asks sweetly, eyes dancing.

"Gracie," I warn, dragging her name out like a growl, even as my cheeks heat, betraying me. I roll my eyes hard enough to feel the pull in my skull. "It's not like that. I'm just... you know the boys. They're animals when it comes to women. I'm just keeping an eye on her."

"Right," she says, drawing the word out like she absolutely doesn't believe me.

I cut her a look, grasping for a distraction. "Which reminds me," I say, leveling a pointed finger at her. "Your dads asked me to keep an eye on you tonight. Wanna explain that?"

Grace's cheeks go instantly pink — a dead giveaway — and she shifts her weight, suddenly very interested in the condensation sliding down her glass.

"You know how they are," she mumbles, tracing her finger along the bar's glossy surface.

Yeah.

I do know.

Because my moms are exactly the same — loud, protective, loving, nosy to a fault.

I grew up in the thick of it, sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table while my sisters tried to survive every awkward teenage crush, every messy heartbreak, every milestone they thought they could sneak past Luna and Mia Bennett.

They couldn't. Nobody could.

Every single new face was met with intense, suspicious scrutiny, every whispered crush dragged into the blinding light of family dinner.

I sat there and soaked it all up — the teasing, the threats, the love stitched into every word.

"You're not dating until you're thirty, Amelia Bennett!"

"Nobody's good enough for my girls!"

It's funny.

Even now — standing here, all grown up, captain of my own damn team, pretending to be some polished adult — I can still hear their voices, bright and unapologetic, rattling around inside my head like they never left.

Grace shifts beside me, pulling me back to the present, her blue eyes mischievous under the low lights of the room.

"So," I say, pretending casual, "there's really nothing to tell?"

I raise an eyebrow at her, letting the silence stretch long enough to make her squirm a little. She tries to hide it — tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, ducking her head so that her long blond waves shield her face — but I know her. She's stalling.

"There's nothing to tell," she says lightly, but I catch the way her gaze flickers. Not toward Harper, but at the same group.

And I know her too well. I know when there's more underneath, but I let it slide for now, even though the urge to pry claws at the back of my throat.

I follow her eyes anyway — and there's Harper, breaking away from her little crowd of NHL boys, weaving her way back toward me with that easy, open smile that hits me dead-center every damn time.

The moment she spots me, something shifts in her.

Her steps get quicker. Her smile, softer.

Her eyes flicker briefly toward Grace — standing too close to me, maybe, laughing too easily — and for the tiniest sliver of a second, something flashes across Harper's face.

It's there and gone so fast I almost miss it. Almost.

"Hey," she breathes, a little out of breath, like she couldn't get here fast enough. I don't move away from Grace immediately — not because I want to make Harper uncomfortable, but because I'm studying her. Quietly. Carefully.

The way her shoulders tighten just a little. The way her fingers brush against her dress like she doesn't know what to do with them now that she's not holding mine. The way she glances at Grace, then at me, then back again — like trying to solve a puzzle without the corner pieces.

Harper recovers fast, slipping back into her sunshine smile, the one she uses when cameras are flashing and people are watching.

"Oh," she says, focusing on Grace now. "Hi! I'm Harper."

Grace grins, sticking out her hand without missing a beat. "Grace Carter. Her favorite cousin," she says, jerking her thumb toward me teasingly.

Harper laughs, real and bright and maybe a little relieved. She reaches out, their hands brushing, and her fingers linger a little too long, a little too deliberate. "Favorite cousin, huh?" Harper says, flashing a playful look my way.

"The only one she willingly claims," Grace jokes easily, throwing an arm around my shoulders and tugging me into her side.

Harper's mouth twitches — something caught between a smile and something else she's trying hard not to show. I feel the way her body stiffens slightly, the way her hands curl at her sides, unsure. I feel it like a magnetic pull under my skin.

I don't say anything. I don't tease, don't call attention to it. Instead, I ease away from Grace — gently enough not to be obvious — and shift closer to Harper, close enough that the hem of my jacket brushes her bare arm.

Her grey eyes flicker up to mine. Soft. Searching. And I just... smile. Like she's the only one in the room. Because right now, she is. Grace catches it all, of course. She smirks knowingly but says nothing, sipping her drink like she's watching her favorite TV show unfold live.

Harper lets out a small breath, subtle but real, like she's relieved.

I don't move away. I just lean into it — into her — pretending it's still all for the cameras.

Even though there's no camera pointed at us now.

Even though nobody's watching. And for the first time tonight, my chest feels a little less tight. A little less ready to implode.

I just stand there, the weight of her warmth pressed into me, the noise of the party fading into something soft, something bearable, around us.

And I let it happen.