Page 9 of Hero After Midnight (Gibson Hollow)

Alia

W e’d been orbiting each other for hours.

Circulating. Talking. Laughing more than I expected—about nothing that mattered and everything that somehow did. Never names. Never anything that would strip away the mask. That was the rule. Or maybe the unspoken understanding between two people pretending this wasn’t what it was.

I knew it was Ramsey. I’d known since the moment we nearly collided. You didn’t mistake a man built like a battering ram. And I knew those eyes. I’d had three years to learn what they looked like when they were watching out for someone. For me.

Bodie had sent him. I knew my twin. Understood that he hadn’t wanted me to be here alone—and that he also knew I’d have been livid if he’d shown up to be bodyguard himself.

These past hours wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun without Ramsey by my side, so rather than be annoyed at Bodie’s high handedness, I was touched and grateful that he’d thought of this.

And, for a while, I’d told myself that was all it was.

Big brother orders, protective best friend execution.

But the longer the night wore on, the less that explanation held.

Ramsey wasn’t simply circling like a bodyguard.

He was staying close because he wanted to.

Because this meant something—to him. To me.

It was dangerous territory. And I didn’t care.

So when the crowd surged, I didn’t resist it.

Someone bumped me from behind, and I stumbled a step closer to him, heels catching against the scuffed dance floor.

His hand was already there, steadying me before I could catch myself.

Callused fingers curling below my elbow and sending sparks up my arm.

The music shifted again, slow and sweet this time.

Alison Krauss, soft and aching, her voice curling through the air like something private that wasn’t meant to be overheard.

The kind of song that made the whole room feel smaller, quieter, as if everyone had taken one collective breath and was holding it.

Fiddles laced under the melody like a heartbeat—that soft southern ache that made it impossible to pretend this wasn’t about something real.

He turned to face me fully and offered his hand. A question in the shape of an open palm.

I took it. Because why not? Because I wanted to. Because, for the first time in… God, maybe ever, I wasn’t being anyone’s daughter or sister or backup plan. I wasn’t calculating or caretaking. I was only me. Wanting something for no other reason than the fact that I wanted it.

My fingers slid into his, and the contact sent a thrill up my arm.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did I. But when he pulled me gently into the middle of the floor, every part of me went electric. His hand found the curve of my waist like it belonged there. A steady, warm assurance that he had me.

Our other hands met in the space between us. His fingers wrapping around mine in a way that felt more like a promise than a step in a dance. And still, neither of us spoke. There was no need.

He didn’t move like a guy at a college party—jerky or ironic or trying too hard.

He moved like a man tuned in. His lead was gentle but intentional, and my body followed without hesitation.

Because of course it did. Because it always had.

Because something in me never stopped listening for the way he moved.

And then, as we turned in a slow, weightless pivot like the world had softened just for us, he leaned in. Close enough to find the space beside my ear, where his breath could skate across my skin like a spark. “Do you always lead?”

The murmured words lit something inside me—sharp and playful and way too close to dangerous.

“Only when someone lets me.” I tilted my head so the words whispered against his jaw, darkened by the faint rasp of stubble. I wondered what he’d taste like there.

His laugh was a low rumble, more felt than heard.

It rippled through my hand on his chest, down my spine to settle somewhere low and aching.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that this was stupid, or risky, or entirely unsustainable.

All that mattered was the way I was standing in the center of a crowd and still somehow felt like the only girl in the room.

The mask was saving me. If I had to acknowledge who he was, who I was, I’d get nervous and fumble everything.

My crush would come out, and then I’d never be able to look him in the eye again until we graduated and went our separate ways.

But this way? This way I could be bold. I could flirt.

I could let myself want without consequence.

Because this wasn’t real, right? This was masquerade magic. Fantasy. A loophole in the rules.

His hand shifted a few inches higher on my back. Not bold or groping. Just… attentive. As if he was giving me the chance to step away or say this was too much.

I didn’t. Instead, I leaned in. And maybe that was nothing.

A line in the air. A slight change to the music.

But my pulse was thunder in my ears. My breath came tight and shallow.

My whole body was humming, strung so taut I could barely stand it.

Because this wasn’t a game anymore. Not really.

And if I let myself believe this was pretend…

I could survive it. At least until the music stopped.

He pulled back to look at me again. Not because the song had ended or because the moment had passed. But to look at me. To really see me.

And he did.

Not in the way guys usually looked. Not like he was trying to peel me apart with his eyes or figure out how far he could get before the mask slipped.

He looked like he was memorizing. Like this—this dance, this moment, this version of me I barely recognized but desperately wanted to be—was something worth keeping.

And I hated how much I liked that. How much I needed it.

No one ever really saw me. Not unless I was fighting.

Not unless I was proving I was the smartest person in the room or the one most likely to make sure everything didn’t fall apart.

But this? This wasn’t about proving anything.

And still, he looked at me like I mattered.

Like I was enough, even now—especially now—standing in the middle of a crowd in female war paint and a mask, trying to remember how to breathe.

I arched a brow, trying for light. “What?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Nothing.” Soft. Solid. Like the word had weight.

But it wasn’t nothing. We both knew that.

It was everything.

I didn’t see it coming. Not exactly. There was no dramatic pause, no shift in music to signal something was about to change. Merely the same quiet ache winding through the melody, the same soft press of his hand at my back, the same steady presence of him, holding the world still around us.

We weren’t alone. Not even close. There were bodies on all sides, voices and footsteps and perfume and too much men’s body spray, but it all blurred into background noise.

For one suspended second, it felt as if the rest of the room slipped away.

Like we’d fallen between the cracks of reality and found a space that belonged only to us.

His hand lifted, slow and cautious, and I felt the brush of his knuckles along my cheek.

A barely there question that electrified every nerve ending.

I didn’t answer with words. I stayed right where I was, let the space between us stay small, let the silence speak for me as I turned the barest fraction into the touch.

I wanted this. Wanted him almost more than my next breath.

Heart thundering, I watched him slowly close the distance, dipping his head toward mine.

He hesitated a fraction of an inch away.

Not changing his mind, but giving me the choice.

I didn’t think. Couldn’t. I simply lifted my mouth to his as if drawn by a gravitational force.

And maybe I was. Three years of silently crushing on this man.

Three years of shoving down those feelings.

Of comparing every guy I dated to him and finding them lacking.

His lips brushed mine, an unbearably tender caress that melted every atom of good sense and set me on fire. I felt drunk and dazzled all at once. It wasn’t sweet. It was earth shattering, life altering devastation. And I was so here for every second.

Something inside me broke loose, a deep, secret, reckless part that pressed closer to the heat of him, flattening my palm against his chest, feeling the solid, muscled shape of him beneath the tux.

One of his hands curved at the back of my neck, cupping my nape.

As much an anchor as a claiming, and everything in me sparked like fireworks.

Oh God, this was going to ruin me. And I didn’t think I cared.

I just didn’t want this exquisite moment to end.

Didn’t want to lose the taste of him against my tongue, the feel of his body, warm and perfect, still swaying with mine in time to the music.

Because it wasn’t simply good. It was everything.

Everything I hadn’t let myself want, everything I’d tried to tuck away.

And now it was here, actually happening, and I didn’t know how to hold everything rioting inside me.

When he finally eased away, his lips left mine by slow degrees, as if he was still deciding whether to stay. His brow pressed gently against mine, and the weight of that simple touch nearly undid me all over again.

Neither of us spoke. Because saying anything would’ve cracked the moment wide open, and I wasn’t ready to lose it. Not yet.

The song ended.

Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it bled into the next track without warning, the fiddles giving way to a driving beat and the low thrum of synth and bass. Around us, the crowd surged back to life—more bodies, more noise, more motion. The spell should’ve broken.

But he didn’t move.

And neither did I.

We stayed exactly where we were, foreheads barely touching, his hand still warm at my back, mine curled loosely in his.

Not swaying. Not talking. Each of us holding still in the eye of whatever this was.

The air between us still felt thick with something that hadn’t fully settled.

My lips tingled. My skin buzzed. My thoughts were a messy tangle of breathless wonder and absolute disbelief.

I didn’t know what happened next.

Didn’t know if we stepped back into the masquerade and pretended none of this had happened.

Didn’t know if we kept pretending not to know who we were beneath the masks.

If we danced again, or walked off, or simply let this night fold back into the version of our lives where he was my brother’s best friend, and I was untouchable.

All I knew was—I wanted more.

I wasn’t asking for a fairytale or forever. Simply more of this. More of him. The way he looked at me like I mattered. The way his touch made my body come alive. The way kissing him hadn’t been terrifying or awkward or regrettable—it had been inevitable.

And maybe, just maybe, I was allowed to want that.

I felt the smile start behind my mask before I realized it was happening. Not a polite party smile. Not the charming one I wore when I was being the girl everyone expected. This one was stupid and giddy and so full of possibility it could barely fit in my chest.

He finally pulled back enough to look at me again, eyes searching mine like he could hear every thought crashing around inside my skull.

I didn’t say a word.

For now, the music was different. The night had changed. The world had tilted. And I was still standing. And as his own lips curved in return, I was maybe even starting to hope.