Page 19

HARPER

"Trust me, Harp. Green is your color. But if you want to walk into that room and leave every single person with their jaws on the floor?" Audrey holds the hanger like a weapon, dramatic as ever, lifting a slinky red satin dress that glints beneath the boutique lights. "This is your dress."

It's got a structured bodice, delicate bows at the shoulders, and a hemline that hovers above the knees in a way that says: Look at me, but not for too long or you'll miss it.

I blink. "Audrey, I'm going to be on the arm of Millie Bennett tonight. Literally no one's going to be looking at me."

She tosses the hanger onto the dressing room hook with a huff and crosses her arms like I just offended her great-aunt's cookie recipe. "Shut up and buy it."

I laugh under my breath, half to hide the blush creeping up my neck. "I can't buy that. Have you seen the tag?"

Audrey points two perfectly manicured fingers at me. "You have your girlfriend's black card in your coat pocket. And she gave it to you for this exact reason. Buy. The. Dress."

"Fake girlfriend," I mutter, but not loud enough for it to carry.

Audrey hears it anyway. "Uh-huh," she says dryly. "Sure. Totally fake. That's why you've been mooning over her like a Jane Austen character for the last three days."

I open my mouth, close it again. Rub the back of my neck and try not to imagine the exact way Millie's hand felt on my jaw. Or the way her voice dropped into something husky and low when she said—

If you ever have needs... you come to me.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

God, I've thought about it too much.

Every night since then, I've laid in bed like some lovesick idiot, staring at the ceiling, remembering the weight of her gaze and the heat coiled so tight between us I could barely breathe.

And the worst part? She didn't even kiss me.

She could've, but she didn't. She just walked away with that stupid smirk like she knew exactly what she was doing.

And maybe she did. Maybe she still does.

"Earth to Harper." Audrey waves a hand in front of my face. "Did she break your brain?"

"Yes," I say immediately, and Audrey cackles.

I run a hand through my hair and finally reach for the red dress. The satin is impossibly soft between my fingers. Ridiculously luxurious. "I don't know, Audrey. What if this is all... like, what if I'm reading into it too much?"

She leans back against the mirror, her tone softening. "You're not."

"You don't know that."

She tilts her head. "Okay, first of all, I know you. And I know when you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You are absolutely terrified," she says, and then points to the dress. "Which is exactly why you should buy this. Wear it. Walk into that gala and make her suffer."

"Suffer?"

Audrey grins. "Yeah. Suffer. For leaving you breathless and speechless and horny in your own apartment and then walking away like it was no big deal."

I groan. "Audrey."

She only shrugs, smug and unrepentant. "If I had someone like that looking at me the way Millie looks at you, I wouldn't be asking questions. I'd be buying the dress and getting ready to ruin her entire night. Trust me, I know Millie."

I laugh, a little helplessly, because I know she's not entirely wrong. It is Millie's fault I've been walking around for three days like my skin is two sizes too small. She touches me like she's testing limits. Talks to me like I'm the only person who matters. Flirts like she can't help herself.

And maybe I can't either. I hold the dress up in front of me, turning toward the mirror. It's dramatic. Gorgeous. Exactly the kind of thing Millie would not expect me to wear.

Good. Because if we're going to this gala together tonight—hand-in-hand, fake dating, cameras flashing—then I want her to look at me and regret everything she didn't do.

"I'm buying it," I say.

Audrey whoops like I just scored the winning goal in overtime. "Also," I add, smirking now, "we need to talk about shoes."

Audrey is insane. Truly. No other word fits her better.

She's chaos in designer sunglasses, the devil on my shoulder in a vintage leather jacket, and I will absolutely blame her in full for the three pairs of heels and five unnecessary dresses now sitting in glossy bags around my feet.

All purchased with Millie's black card. The one I said I wouldn't use except for one dress for the gala tonight. Just one. Simple. Classic. Elegant.

Instead, I've somehow walked away with a miniature version of a luxury wardrobe and absolutely no self-control. And okay, yes, technically Audrey was right when she said, "Millie has more zeros in her bank account than the royal family, just fucking buy it."

But that doesn't mean I'm not spiraling a little bit.

I'm standing in the middle of the apartment now, alone, surrounded by shiny bags and receipts I can't look at directly without risking a minor heart attack.

I'm still wearing the "comfortably hot" outfit Audrey picked out for shopping—a tight black turtleneck tucked into a high-waisted wool skirt and a trench coat that cinches at the waist like some Parisian assassin—and yet somehow, it's nothing compared to the red satin dress folded carefully in tissue paper.

I've barely seen Millie since that day. She's been at practice or in meetings or holed up in her room with calls from her PR team, her voice low and clipped, her expression unreadable.

And I've been trying to act normal. Calm.

Unaffected. As if my skin doesn't buzz every time I hear her footsteps in the hallway.

As if her voice doesn't live rent-free in the back of my head.

And tonight we're going to a gala together.

I press my palm to my chest, feeling the familiar flutter—anxiety or anticipation, I can't tell.

Maybe both. Millie's going to put on one of her perfectly tailored suits and smirk her way through a red carpet while I try not to lose my mind beside her in heels and lipstick and a dress made to ruin people.

And the thing is, I want to ruin her. I want to walk into that ballroom on her arm and make her forget every other woman she's ever looked at. I want her attention, her eyes, her hands—I want all of it. Even if I'm still telling myself this isn't real. Even if she's just playing the part.

God. I hate that I want her so much.

The front door clicks shut behind me, and the quiet settles around the apartment like a blanket I don't quite know how to sit under.

The sun's going down, casting amber light through the kitchen window, slanting across the counter where two empty coffee mugs from this morning still sit.

One of them is hers. Lipstick print still faint on the rim.

"Harps?"

Her voice—low, rough, that lazy gravel that only appears when she's half-tired or freshly off the ice—rolls over my name like it belongs to her.

And God help me, maybe it does.

I turn around, pulse leaping in my throat, and—yeah.

There it is. The full, gut-punch effect of seeing Millie Bennett in her natural habitat: casual, careless, devastating.

She's standing in the hallway, holding her phone, brows furrowed like something about it personally offended her.

She's in a baggy grey hoodie I've definitely seen before—probably stolen from her sister, knowing her—paired with a long black coat and jeans that hang loose on her frame.

Her red hair is tucked under a knit beanie, a few strands slipping free to curl around her cheeks.

And those eyes—those goddamn eyes—find mine, and suddenly I forget how to inhale. They're this unreal kind of blue, piercing and bright and impossibly gentle when they land on me like that, like I'm something soft she doesn't quite know what to do with.

Jesus. Say something. Anything.

"Hi—hey, Mills."

Her mouth curves into a slow smile that sets off a ripple low in my stomach. She tilts her head, teasing already. "Were you using my credit card?"

Fuck. I go cold all at once.

I glance at the expensive bags scattered on the floor around me like evidence in a crime scene.

Panic crawls up my spine. "I—I... yeah. I did.

I, um. I bought a dress and then Audrey convinced me to get the rest of this stuff but I can give them back.

No, I will return them, I swear, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean to— I just— I can pay you b—"

"Baby, breathe."

She's suddenly in front of me—in front of me—and before I can process it, her hands are cupping my cheeks like I'm something fragile and burning all at once.

My whole body locks up. Her palms are warm, her thumbs brushing just beneath my cheekbones, grounding me in a way that makes it impossible to think about anything but the fact that Millie Bennett is touching me again and using that voice and calling me baby like it's a perfectly casual thing to do.

"I gave you that card to spend it," she says, eyes locked to mine like I'm the only thing in the room. "I was just asking 'cause the bank called. Had to confirm the payments, make sure I wasn't being robbed."

My heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest. "Oh," I manage, breathless. "You're not mad?"

She laughs, low and amused, and I feel it like a vibration in my ribs. "Why would I be mad?"

"I just... spent a lot of your money."

She shrugs like it's nothing. "Someone has to."

I can't stop staring at her. She's still holding my face in her hands, still standing so close I can see the faint freckles on her nose and the scar on her bottom lip from that time she took a puck to the mouth and didn't even flinch. I don't know how she's real.

"You don't have to return anything," she murmurs. "And you sure as hell don't need to pay me back."

My throat feels tight. "I just... I don't want you to think I'm using you."

That gets a reaction. Her eyes flicker. She leans in a breath closer, voice low and teasing but soft around the edges. "You think I'd let you use me, Harper?"

Her thumb skims down along my jaw, dangerously close to my mouth. I feel the touch like a spark.

"I don't think I could," I whisper, the words leaving me before I can stop them.

Millie's smile changes—something darker curling into it, something warm. She tilts her head, and now her mouth is just inches from mine. Not touching. Not kissing. Just... hovering. Close enough that I can taste her breath. Her voice drops.

"You imagine me losing it?" she murmurs.

"What?"

She glances down briefly—at the bags, the heels, the faint outline of my body in this fitted sweater—and then back up, gaze molten. "When you were trying those dresses on. Did you picture me seeing you in them? Losing it a little?"

I want to lie. I really do. But the heat climbing up my neck gives me away before I even say it.

"Yes," I whisper.

Her hands fall away slowly, and it takes everything in me not to step forward and chase that contact.

Millie steps back, just one step. Enough to leave me flustered and aching and way too warm in my own skin. She tugs her hoodie sleeves down, glances toward the hallway, then back at me.

"You wear any of those tonight," she says, voice low and lethal, "and I promise I'll make you regret it."

My breath catches. "That a threat?"

She smiles with teeth. "Sure."

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Amelia."

She turns with a smirk, just like that, and walks off—hood up, beanie low, hands in her coat pockets like she didn't just drop a bomb and leave me trembling in its aftermath.

She pauses at her door, "Go get ready, baby. We have another gala to crash."

"And the world to fool." I end for her with a smile.

────────── ????──────────

Of course— Of course I need a second pair of hands to zip the dress up all the way.

Of course I'd pick up the only dress that has a zip or maybe this is why Audrey picked it up. I wouldn't put it pass her.

The click of my heels on the hardwood has Millie looking up mid-sip, a glass of water suspended halfway to her lips.

Blue eyes drag slowly, deliberately, up the length of my body.

They pause at my legs, glide over the curve of my hips, and linger on my chest with a heat that makes me straighten my spine.

I don't have much going on in that department, but this dress?

It's doing the most, and she's definitely noticed.

Her lips part slightly. Then her tongue slides out to wet the bottom one, and I forget how to breathe.

She swallows, visibly, and when her gaze finally finds mine, her voice is a rough scrape of awe. "Wow."

"Hi," I manage to say, like an idiot.

She's wearing a suit that looks like it was made to be removed slowly—black, sharp, dangerous.

Every inch is tailored to her body like a sin I'm about to commit.

The jacket nips in at the waist, hinting at what's underneath—or what isn't.

Her trousers skim over her heels in a clean, fluid line.

Sleek. Effortless. And very, very effective.

Her red hair spills like molten copper over her shoulders, glossy in the soft light, and I know—I know—she isn't wearing anything beneath that blazer.

I can feel the air change just looking at her.

"You look stunning, Harp," she says, voice low, and I swear I feel it down my spine.

I turn, giving her my back. My smile's probably a little smug. "Could you zip me up?"

My hair's short enough not to be in the way, so I don't bother moving it.

I hear the quiet clink of her glass on the counter before the soft sound of her steps.

One. Two. Three. Measured. Intimate. Then warmth—her body heat—wraps around my back like a secret, and my breath catches when her hand slides across my hip.

Steady. Possessive.

Something's shifted.

We've been playing at this—flirty comments, teasing glances—but tonight, it hums between us like electricity, impossible to ignore.

We're teetering on the edge of something else entirely.

Her fingers brush the back of my neck, tucking away an imaginary stray hair. Completely unnecessary. Absolutely intentional.

I shiver at her touch, my body aware of her. She chuckles.

"I hate you," I mutter, breath shaky.

"Mmm," she purrs, amused. "Sure you do."

The hand on my hip tightens, bunching the fabric of my dress in her grasp.

Her other hand finds the zipper and pulls slowly, tracing the line of my spine with maddening precision.

She takes her time—of course she does—and when the zipper reaches the top, her fingertips skate around to the front of my throat.

She doesn't touch. Not really. Just lets her fingers hover, like she's waiting for permission. Or maybe waiting for me to break.

Her chest is against my back now, her thumb brushing over the pulse in my neck. "Did I buy this dress?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Her breath stirs the hair at my temple. "Good."

Arching my back, I'm about two seconds from asking him to blow off this party, take me to bed, and take care of my every ache and need.

She must sense my thought process, because she interrupts it to tell me, "We've got to go.

"

I turn to face her, chest to chest with her. "You look beautiful tonight, Millie."

Her tongue sweeps out to wet her lower lip before it's pulled between her teeth in a smirk. Attention darting to my mouth, I suck an anticipatory breath before she steps back to create some distance. "So do you, baby."

God, I love that fucking pet name. "Are you ready?"

I nod, linking my arm with hers, "Let's put on a show."

The paparazzi go feral the moment Millie steps out of the car.

It's not that I didn't expect it—I've seen it happen a hundred times before. The way the flashbulbs strobe in frantic bursts, the swarm of voices calling her name like she's some kind of myth made real. But this time, it's different.

Because this time, she's mine. At least..

. tonight. At least to them.

Millie straightens slowly, effortlessly, like she owns the earth beneath her heels.

She's in a deep black suit, tailored to perfection, cut just sharp enough to be dangerous.

The second she looks toward the press line, the crowd practically howls.

But she doesn't smile for them. Doesn't pause for the cameras.

She turns back to me. And everything else goes silent.

Millie opens my door with one hand, the other already extended like we're stepping onto a dance floor, not the most high-profile red carpet of the season.

I feel the moment like a pulse—hers and mine.

She doesn't say a word. Just watches me with those stupid, devastating blue eyes.

Like she's about to do something reckless. Like I'm the reckless thing.

I take her hand before I can think too hard about it. And when I step out of the car, I hear it—my name.

Mixed in with hers, loud and sharp and surreal.

It hits me like a wave of heat. They're calling my name. Not just hers. Not just Amelia Bennett, hockey legend, scandal-maker, tabloid royalty. They're calling mine. But I don't let myself look at them. Don't let myself flinch.

Because the only thing I want to look at is the girl whose fingers are curled tightly around mine. The girl who keeps doing this thing—making me feel like I'm the only person who exists when all eyes are on her.

"You okay?" she murmurs low, like a secret against my skin.

I nod. "Yeah. Just... pretending."

"You don't have to pretend. Just be yourself."

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the way my lips tug up. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're hot," she says. "Now walk like it."

We take maybe five steps down the carpet. Millie waves, she poses once with her free hand in her pocket, gives them a single dimpled grin that nearly kills a man to our left—but it's quick. Efficient. Intentional. Like she wants to give them enough to chew on, but not enough to feed the fire.

Her arm stays around me the whole time. Her body always turned slightly toward mine. Her thumb grazes my waist like she forgets she's doing it.

And then we're off it. Just like that. Past the cameras. Through the glass doors. Inside.

Inside the gala. The real attention isn't behind us—it's in front of us. Because the second we step inside, a different kind of spotlight finds us. Quieter. But no less intense.

Heads turn. Conversations pause. It's not about the cameras anymore. Not about the show. This is the room where people really watch.

I'm standing next to Millie Bennett, in this dress that feels like a second skin, with her hand still warm in mine. The attention rolls over us like heat. Like expectation.

I try to keep my spine straight. My smile soft. My hand steady.

Millie leans in, her breath brushing the shell of my ear. "I've got you."

Somehow, I believe her.

The ballroom is stunning—vaulted ceilings, soft golden light, tables dressed in forest green and ivory linens, a string quartet tucked into one corner playing something low and moody.

The guests are dressed to kill, the champagne is flowing, and everything smells faintly like jasmine and candlewax.

Luna and Mia are standing a few feet away around our table, and they look unreal.

Mia is in a dark emerald velvet dress that falls off one shoulder, her red hair swept into a sleek bun that shows off her diamond earrings.

She's holding a champagne flute and laughing at something one of the board members is saying, effortless and poised like she's done this a thousand times.

Because she has.

Luna Bennett is in a black silk gown, low in the back, with her brown hair twisted into a loose knot and her green eyes scanning the room with calm precision.

Like she sees everything before it happens.

And when her gaze lands on us—on me—she smiles.

It's quiet. But warm. Knowing. Millie squeezes my hand once. "Ready to greet the queens?"

"No," I whisper, even though I already love them. "Lie to me and say I look cool."

Millie grins. "You look cool. And also... maybe like you're ruining my life in that dress."

"That was the plan."

"And it's working."

She lets her hand slide from mine just as we approach the table, but not before letting her fingers trace the inside of my wrist in a way that makes my breath catch.

Mia looks up first. "There you are," she says, voice warm and amused, eyes twinkling. "You two took your sweet time. We were placing bets on how late you'd be."

Luna raises one brow. "I won. Your mother here said you weren't coming, and I knew you would."

"Technically, Harper won," Mia says, "because that dress? Millie's speechless."

"She is dramatic," Luna adds, giving me a once-over and a slow, approving nod. "But you—Harper, sweetheart—you look stunning."

My face heats immediately. "Thank you. I— You both look incredible."

Millie slips into the seat next to Luna, her hand drops under the table without any warning, fingers finding my knee, and I jolt like someone just zapped me.

She doesn't even look at me. Just starts pouring herself a glass of water, cool as ever. Like her hand isn't casually resting on my thigh in a room full of cameras, billionaires, and her parents.

"So," she says, deadpan as hell, "when can we leave?"

Mia lets out a laugh that's all sparkle and fond exasperation while Luna just shakes her head like she's heard this routine before.

"You just got here," Luna says, smoothing a hand over the black silk of her gown. Her voice is calm, amused, patient in that way only mothers of chaotic daughters know how to be.

"And I already hate it here."

I stifle a laugh and nudge her shoulder. "Say it louder so the press can hear you."

"Oh, sweetheart, they already know," Mia says, sipping her champagne like she's watching her favorite drama unfold live. "When she was little she used to hate these things—completely hate them. I think there's a video somewhere of her throwing an all-out tantrum in the middle of a dance floor."

I turn, eyebrows raised, delight curling through me like heat. "I need to see that."

Millie groans like I've betrayed her. "Why do you always bring that up?"

"Because it's adorable," Mia says, grinning, "You were wearing this little navy velvet suit and sparkly shoes and you kept yelling that the music was 'offensive.'"

I snort, actually snort, and Millie glares at me like she wants to kick me under the table. Which she does. Lightly.

Luna, ever graceful, lifts her wine glass but doesn't drink yet. "And we couldn't leave," she adds, gaze going soft. "They were about to give me an award and I just remember holding Millie on my hip while she sobbed into my shoulder. I felt like the worst mom in the world."

"You're not," Millie says instantly, without even a glance up from her water. Her voice is quiet, sure, like a fact she's known her whole life.

Luna's expression shifts—just the slightest breath of something tender breaking through her usual calm. She reaches over and rests a hand on Millie's shoulder, fingers brushing over the lapel of her suit.

"If you hate these things," I ask softly, barely above a whisper, "why do you even come?"

I'm not really looking at her when I say it.

My eyes are mostly focused on my lap, where the smooth red satin of my dress pools around my thighs—and where Millie's finger is currently tracing the slowest, most distracting circles into my bare skin.

She's doing it under the white linen tablecloth like it's nothing, like we're not surrounded by hundreds of people in tuxedos and sequins, like there aren't cameras zooming in from across the ballroom. Her touch is light. Aimless. Maddening.

I feel eyes on us. So many of them. Watching, guessing. It makes my spine go stiff and my stomach turn over, the anxiety coiling just beneath my ribs.

But it's not Millie who answers my question.

"It's part of the job," Luna says smoothly, like it's been rehearsed a hundred times before. "We're the face of hockey," she continues, lifting her wine glass delicately. "We have to show up. She has to show up—keep the public on her side."

I glance at Millie then, who's still slouched with one arm draped over the back of my chair like she owns me. She's not looking at her mom. Her gaze is on the chandelier above us, her mouth pulled into something between boredom and defiance.

I know she doesn't care about optics.

Not the way they want her to. And as if she can read my thoughts—again—she turns her head lazily toward me.

"I don't care about that stuff," she says, voice low and scratchy.

"I never have. But I guess I have a reputation to keep.

And a job to protect. So I show up. Play the game.

Wear the suit."

Her mouth twitches, a mock smile, sharp around the edges.

"Honestly?" She leans in a little, her lips dangerously close to my ear.

"I'm just here to play hockey. The rest is background noise. "

My breath catches. The press might see us sitting close, but they'll never hear her whisper against my skin. They'll never feel the static that leaps between us in moments like this.

"But you're good at it," I say, unsure why I feel the need to say it, but I do. "The press stuff. The attention. You know how to handle it."

She smirks, slow and crooked. "Oh, I know how to handle things."

A shiver rips down my spine. Her hand squeezes gently on my thigh, like punctuation.

God. I am not surviving this night.

I glance across the table for help, for air, for anything—and find Luna and Mia in easy conversation with someone I don't recognize.

It's comforting, weirdly, watching them in this space.

Luna leans in when Mia talks, always listening, always present.

Her fingers toy with the corner of Mia's sleeve absentmindedly, like they've been doing that for thirty years and don't even notice anymore.

"I feel like I'm in a room full of royalty," I mutter under my breath.

Millie glances sideways at me, grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You are."

I arch a brow. She leans in again. "But I'm the dangerous one."

Another breath caught in my throat. Her fingers move higher by just an inch.

The lights in the ballroom dim a little more, a subtle shift that draws our attention toward the stage.

The host of the gala is stepping up to speak, the room falling into a hush of clinks and whispers.

Millie doesn't move her hand. Her thumb taps gently once, twice, against my skin like she's got a beat playing in her head.

Her breath is hot near my ear again. "You look good in red."

My heart thuds. "You'll look even better out of it."

I choke on a sip of water and shoot her a glare, eyes wide. She just smiles innocently and turns her attention to the stage.

The stage lights dim after the first few speeches, and soft music begins to fill the room—something elegant and expensive, the kind of string-heavy jazz that's meant to get people moving without wrinkling their gowns.

Millie slouches deeper in her seat like just the idea of dancing is a personal insult. But then Luna glances at her, gives a subtle tilt of her head toward the clearing crowd on the ballroom floor, and Millie groans.

"Ugh," she mutters, finishing the last of her water like it's whiskey. "She gave me the look."

"Your mom?"

"Mm." She sets the glass down. "That's the you-better-dance-at-this-gala look."

I laugh, soft but surprised. "She gave you a look and you're just gonna obey it?"

"Only 'cause you're sitting here in that dress," she says, like it's the most logical thing in the world. Then she turns to me fully, palm open. "Dance with me?"

My brain takes a full second too long to catch up to her words. Her fingers are inches from my leg, palm up, and something about the way she's asking—like she already knows I'll say yes—makes my skin flush hot under the collarbone.

She doesn't wait long. Her hand slips into mine before I even nod.

The press must be eating this up. Our fingers intertwined.

Millie leading me onto the floor like she's done this before.

(She probably has. Of course she has.) Cameras flash along the edges, bouncing in the corners of my vision.

But the moment her other hand rests against the small of my back, I forget the noise, the people, even the fact that my shoes cost more than I can emotionally process.

I've never walked into a room with so many eyes on me and cared this little. That's the power of her, I guess—how easy it is to forget the noise when her fingers are threaded with mine, when her body is moving so confidently toward the center of a room like she owns it.

She probably does.

The lights are warm and low, the music soft and jazzy, something elegant playing through the speakers.

Couples sway around us, quiet laughter and hushed conversation threading through the space.

And then we're there, in the middle of it, standing still for just a second.

Her hands settle on my waist—familiar and bold, as if we've done this before. As if she knows exactly where I belong.

I breathe in slowly. Try not to react to the heat of her palms through the fabric of my dress.

Millie steps closer, one foot between mine, and when I lift my hands to her shoulders, I don't mean to dig my fingers into the soft black collar of her suit—but I do. I do, because she's so solid and real and maddening.

"You good?" Millie asks, her voice light but edged with something I can't quite name. Playful, maybe. Or concerned. Or that low hum of flirtation she wears like second skin.

I nod.

Then immediately shake my head. "No. I mean—yes. I just... feel like everyone's watching."

"They are," she says without even blinking, her grin spreading like wildfire across her face. Shameless. Confident. A little dangerous. "Just keep your eyes on me."

And I do. I try. But the problem is—keeping my eyes on her might be worse.

Because her eyes—those stupid, stunning eyes are so fucking blue.

Not normal blue. Not soft denim or cloudy sky.

No. This is something else entirely. This is sharp, unfiltered glacier water in a place too cold to survive.

This is electric. Dangerous. Too much.

There's green in them sometimes. I've seen it—when she's mad, when she's angry or when she's focused on anything that isn't me. But right now, looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth her attention? They're nothing but pure, bright, soul-wrecking blue.

"It's just you and me, Harps," she murmurs.

And then she pulls me closer—one confident step that closes the inch between us like it never existed.

Now we're chest to chest, her thigh brushing mine, her breath warm against my cheek, her fingers low on my back, right at the edge of the red satin that suddenly feels too thin.

"You scared me" I whisper, my voice barely making it out.

She laughs. "Good. You should be a little scared."

Her thumb presses into my hip just slightly, just enough to make me swallow hard.

"What are you doing?" I ask, eyes locked on her lips for far too long.

"Dancing with my girlfriend," she says innocently, swaying us both gently to the music like none of this is a problem. Like we're not both strung so tightly we could snap.

"You're flirting."

"Of course I'm flirting," she replies, brushing her nose lightly against my temple before pulling back just enough to look at me again. "You're wearing that dress. I'd flirt with you even if there weren't fifty photographers around waiting to see if I kiss you again."

I hate how warm that makes me feel. I hate that I wish she would.

I hate that I know exactly how her mouth felt on mine—how quickly she stole my breath and gave it back like it was hers to begin with.

Her hands are slow but steady, moving in just the right rhythm, guiding me like she knows my body better than I do.

She probably does. That's the worst part.

Or maybe the best. I can't tell anymore.

"How's your heart rate?" she teases, pulling back enough to give me a look. "You're blushing."

"Shut up."

"No, really. Are you okay? You look like you might pass out."

"It's these heels," I lie.

She raises a brow. "Sure it is."

The music swells and dips, and we move with it. Around us, people are watching. Smiling. Whispering. Cameras flash every few seconds and I should care, I should feel exposed or awkward, but I don't.

Because Millie's hand is still on my back. Her mouth is still just inches from mine. Her eyes haven't left my face.

"So," she says casually, "have you picked what you're wearing to the wedding?"

I blink at her. The wedding. Right. The one I stupidly asked her to go to with me. The one where I'll be face-to-face with Isaiah and the girl he cheated on me with. Fun.

"No," I say, voice soft. "It's still weeks away. I'm actually more worried about what Shannon's gonna say when I tell her the flowers she wanted aren't available."

Millie's mouth twitches, one corner pulling up. Her thumb draws a lazy circle on the spot just above my hip, like she's listening but also trying to make it impossible for me to focus.

And yeah—it's working. She tilts her head, her auburn hair catching in the low light, her expression unreadable but so focused it sends another wave of heat down my spine. "Why are you organizing their wedding, though?"

I pull my face back an inch, narrowing my eyes like I don't know what she's doing, like she hasn't already wrapped herself around the knot in my chest. "Because... they're my friends?"

Millie raises an eyebrow. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling you," I say quickly, too quickly. I clear my throat. "They're my friends. And Shannon asked. And I said yes."

"Huh," she hums, completely unconvinced, like the word alone is a whole monologue.

Her hand moves, from my back to my waist, her thumb slipping beneath the fabric of my dress just slightly. Just enough to feel skin. I'm going to combust.

"I'm serious," I tell her, breathless. "I've known Shannon since, um... since I got to Canada. She's—she's always been good to me."

Millie's fingers brush lightly up and down my spine. I wonder if she knows I'm clenching every muscle in my body to stay upright.

She leans in. Closer. Her lips don't touch me, but they hover right by my jaw. Right over the place she kissed three nights ago in the apartment, when she had me against the couch and told me—God. Told me I could come to her if I had... needs.

No. I'm not thinking about that. I can't think about that.

Except I am. My whole body remembers it.

She whispers, "Has she asked you how you've been?"

The question punches a hole through my thoughts.

"What?" I ask, weakly.

"Since the breakup," she clarifies, her tone softer now. "Has Shannon—or any of them—actually asked how you were doing?"

I open my mouth. Then close it. Try again. "They... they've been busy," I say, and I hate how unsteady I sound. "The wedding and stuff."

But even as the words leave me, I know they're not true.

Or not the whole truth.

Because I've seen the stories.

Every brunch, every girls' night, every coffee run with matching sunglasses and those effortless little captions like #justusgirls.

Every tag except mine. Every photo that makes me feel like I've been erased.

They're not too busy. I'm just not invited anymore.

And yeah, maybe it's because Isaiah's in that group too, but I think some part of me always knew the truth: they've chosen. And it wasn't me. I'm just that forgettable. Invisible.

Millie doesn't say anything right away. She doesn't rush in to tell me I'm wrong or that I'm overthinking or that they probably just forgot. She just lifts one shoulder in a small shrug like she's letting the weight of the silence answer for me.

"You don't have to explain," she says after a long pause, quieter now.

Her hand lifts slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear like it's nothing, like she doesn't realize how that tiny touch unravels something in me.

Her knuckles skim the side of my face, soft and warm.

"But I've never heard you talk about them the way you talk about Audrey. That says something."

I try to swallow the lump rising in my throat. Her touch is the only thing keeping me grounded right now—like a tether to something solid in a room that suddenly feels too bright, too loud, too full of people who don't see me at all.

"You really don't like them, huh?" I ask, my voice small.

Millie tilts her head a little, thoughtful. "I don't really know them," she says honestly. "But I don't like people who treat you like you're optional. If they can call themselves your friends but make you feel like a spare part? Yeah. Not a fan."

I let out a breath that's part laugh, part broken sigh. "You're a really good fake girlfriend."

Millie's lips curve into a slow, knowing grin. There's a flicker in her eyes now, the return of something cocky and sharp—but it's softened by how her thumb is now rubbing a slow circle against my hip.

"You think I'm pretending?" she murmurs, voice all velvet and challenge.

I look up at her. Her face is just inches away. Her eyes—God, those stupid, endless eyes—are locked on mine like they're reading pages I haven't even written yet. My heart stutters in my chest, skipping beats like it doesn't know how to keep rhythm with her this close.

"I don't know," I whisper. "Are you?"

Her gaze flickers down to my mouth and lingers there, and my body reacts before my mind catches up. My lips part slightly. My breath shudders. I feel every nerve ending stretch toward her like a tide pulled by the moon.

Her thumb traces the edge of my ribs, slow and steady. Her hand presses firmer at the small of my back, guiding me closer until there's truly no space left between us. Her forehead dips toward mine, almost like she's going to kiss me—almost.

And then, in that soft, deliberate voice of hers that always gets under my skin, she murmurs, "You're my friend, Harps. Pretending or not—I care about you."

And just like that, I'm gone.

Because I believe her. Because she says it like she means it. Like it matters. Like I matter.

Her hand squeezes gently at my waist as she leans back just enough to look at me again. Her expression isn't teasing anymore. It's something closer to tender. Something dangerous.

I glance down at our feet, still slowly swaying in place, and whisper, "I don't really want to keep dancing."

Millie lifts an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Not because of you," I add quickly. "Just... I'm kind of overwhelmed. Too many eyes. Too much... everything."

Millie's hand finds mine instantly, fingers curling tight between mine like a promise. "Come on," she says, her voice low. "Let's get out of here."

"No," I say, stopping her with a gentle tug. "We don't need to leave. You heard your mom—you have to be here."

Millie pauses, turning to face me fully.

Her brow lifts slightly, like she can't believe I'd even try to argue.

The ballroom's light spills around us—soft golds and deep blues, glittering silhouettes and the distant clink of champagne flutes—and she's standing here in the middle of it all, eyes locked on mine like none of it matters.

"Harps," she says, quiet but firm. "I don't have to be anywhere if you're not okay."

"I'm fine," I try, but my voice falters, too thin around the edges. "I don't want to pull you away from something important."

She tilts her head, eyes searching mine.

"You're important."

My stomach twists—tight, unfamiliar.

There's no performance in her face. No smile for the cameras.

No placating or pretty spin. Just that grounded steadiness she slips into sometimes when she's not playing the loudest, boldest version of herself.

"You matter more than a room full of strangers and a couple of sponsors I'll shake hands with next week anyway. "

It's not the words themselves—it's the way she says them. Like she's never once been afraid to rearrange the entire world around the people she cares about.

I swallow hard. Because suddenly, it's not the music or the crowd making it hard to breathe. It's her.

She's still holding my hand, but now her thumb is tracing slow, deliberate circles over my skin like she knows I'm halfway to falling apart.

"I used to come to things like this with Isaiah," I say, voice barely above a whisper. I don't know why I say it. Maybe because I'm trying to make sense of why this feels so different. "He always wanted to stay. Hours. No matter how tired I got."

Millie doesn't roll her eyes or mock him or crack a joke. She just pulls our joined hands between us and leans in, close enough that her forehead almost brushes mine. "I'm not him," she says softly.

I nod, breath hitching. "Yeah. I know."

But knowing and feeling it are different things.

And now I feel it everywhere—in my chest, in my throat, in the way my hand tightens around hers like I'm terrified she'll let go.

She doesn't. Instead, she shifts her grip, lifting my hand to her mouth and pressing a kiss to my knuckles—just one.

Quick. Soft. A little dangerous. Her eyes stay on mine the whole time.

"Let's go," she says again, this time not as a suggestion but a promise. "We'll get food. Put on sweatpants. Watch the worst movie we can find."

"Don't you have media interviews tomorrow?"

"Yeah," she says, grinning now. "And they'll still be there after we eat greasy fries in bed and mock bad rom-coms."

I laugh before I mean to. It bubbles out of me, warm and small and real.

She tugs me toward the exit again, and this time I let her. I don't care if people see us leave. I don't care about the whispers or the photos or what it'll look like. Not when Millie's hand is in mine, not when every step away from that room feels like breathing again.

And I think... I think this is what it's supposed to feel like.

Not performing. Not pushing down the discomfort to keep someone else happy.

Just... being seen. Heard. Chosen.

The cold air hits us the moment the doors swing open, but I barely notice it.

She drapes her jacket over my shoulders without asking, like it's instinct.

Like I belong in her orbit and she knows it.

"I don't think anyone's ever done that for me before," I say, once we're tucked into the backseat of the car, warm and quiet and alone again.

She glances over, eyebrows lifted. "What? Ditched a party for you?"

"Yeah," I admit. "But also... noticed."

Millie's smile softens. "I notice everything about you."

And she says it so easily, like it's a truth she's known longer than I've known how to protect myself. Like maybe she's been watching quietly from the sidelines all along, waiting until I was ready to believe someone like her could actually care.

I don't say anything back.

But my hand never lets go of hers.