Page 6

DANIEL

“Hey, Dan,” Bethany says, walking up to me.

“Hi, Bethany.” I smirk down at her as she sidles up to me. She flashes me a sultry smile, pulling me onto the dance floor.

“Let’s dance.” She calls over the booming music.

“Bethany,” I groan.

“Come on, loosen up a little. We can have fun later.” She cocks a brow at me, emphasizing fun .

“Fine.” I let her guide me through the dance floor, pulling me into the fray of the crowd. The music is loud and chaotic, couples pressing into each other on the dance floor. Multicolored lights flash and swirl, casting a kaleidoscope of hues across the packed room. The air is thick with the mingling scents of perfume, cologne, and spilled drinks, creating a cocktail of aromas that screams indulgence. The dance floor is alive with movement, bodies swaying and grinding together in perfect sync with the pounding bass.

I try my best to keep up with Bethany, mimicking the movements of the other couples. I am not particularly adept at dancing, but she appears to be enjoying herself, her hands caressing my body with playful abandon. As the music pulses through the room, I feel Bethany’s body pressing against mine. Her hands seem to be everywhere, tracing circles on my chest or tangling in the collar of my shirt. I chuckle at her eagerness.

“You’re quite insistent tonight, huh?” I tease, feeling her hands roaming all over my body. The music thumps loudly and the strobe lights cast a surreal glow around us. Bethany grins at me, drawing herself closer, her body tightly pressed against mine.

“You’re not complaining, are you?”

I chuckle, my hands resting on her hips, pulling her closer. “No, I’m not complaining,” I reply, leaning down to murmur in her ear.

I see a familiar figure sitting in the corner, using their phone. I squint my eyes to get a better look. It’s Anya. My breath hitches as she stands up, looking around. She looks like perfection. I can’t help but let my eyes roam over her figure, taking in the way her outfit hugs her curves. So she came. A small smile forms on my lips. Bethany notices the shift in my attention, and her own grip on me tightens. “You’re distracted,” she mutters, following my line of sight.

I see Anya walk out into the backyard. I push myself away from Bethany, my mind completely occupied with Anya.

“I am sorry. I have to go.” Bethany doesn’t protest. She just nods and mingles with the crowd. She knows how it works with me—no strings attached, no complications, no drama at all. I’m not one to play games or chase fleeting connections.

I make my way out of the crowd. I step out onto the back porch, the cool air a welcome change from the stifling heat indoors. I take a deep breath and look around, taking in the sight of a few couples making out under the shadows of the trees. I can hear the faint sound of music wafting from the open windows and the distant rumble of the party inside.

I spot her sitting on a cool rock. The breeze plays with her hair, making it fall loosely around her shoulders. Her dress flows gently with the wind, and even in the dim light, she looks striking. As I walk toward her, her figure becomes clearer in the soft light of the moon. She’s staring out into the night, her posture calm yet pensive, as if the world beyond the darkness holds answers she’s searching for.

The moonlight brushes against her skin, giving her an almost ethereal glow. Her hair catches the faint breeze, a few strands falling into her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She looks…beautiful. Not in the effortless way she usually does, but in a way that makes my chest tighten like this quiet, unguarded version of her is a secret I’m not supposed to see.

I pause for a moment, taking in the way the cold air makes her flushed cheeks even more rosy. As if my legs have a mind of their own, they shift closer to her. Anya turns around and gasps. “You scared me!” she exclaims, putting her hand on her chest. Her eyes and nose are red; she turns around, furiously wiping her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, concerned. Seeing her rub her cheeks makes me wonder if she was crying out here. The thought makes me feel a strange pang in my chest; I don’t like the idea.

“Nothing. Just leave me alone, please,” she says, her voice wobbly. I take a seat next to her on the rock. I can feel the heat from her body next to me.

“I will sit here,” I announce.

“I said the exact opposite of that,” she mutters, a small smile playing on her lips that makes me smile too.

“What are you doing outside?” I ask gently.

“On your suggestion to be adventurous, I agreed to come to this freak house.” She throws her hands in the air. “You were wrong, captain. This isn’t fun at all,” she says, “And folks here should respect the effort I am putting in to not mass murder people.” Her eyes glint darkly.

“I am sorry,” I apologize. We sit in silence. I look at her face illuminated in the soft glow of the moon. She’s a mystery to me; she has been so fierce all the times I have met her. I think it’s the most I’ve seen of her raw emotions. “You really hate parties that much?” I ask slowly.

She’s silent for a while before she speaks. “All my life, I’ve been the goody two-shoes. I thought when I got away from home, I’d finally open up a bit. Discover my true self and all that. But look at me—so miserable and conveniently hiding here. I’ll never be able to come out of my comfort zone. I guess I’m just a prude.” She sniffles, then adds softly, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just…I wish I could let loose a little sometimes, you know.” The vulnerability in her voice and words makes my heart clench.

“You know,” I start slowly. “Being a goody two-shoes doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. You’re trying to open up and explore your true self, and that’s courageous. It’s normal to feel uncomfortable in new situations. Especially parties.”

I reach out and gently wipe away a stray tear from her cheek. Her breath hitches at the unexpected touch, and she looks at me with wide eyes.

“Moreover,” I say softly. “Imagine how catastrophic it would be if you weren’t prissy. People would be dead by now.” She lets out a soft laugh, her eyes still a little watery, but there’s a spark of humor in them, too.

“You have a point, I suppose,” she replies with a small smile.

“But it’s not just about the parties,” she continues quietly. “I feel like I’m always holding back, like I can never really be myself. I know I may be a bit of a tightly wound psycho, but sometimes I just want to break free, you know.”

I nod, understanding exactly what she means. “Yeah, I know,” I say, my voice low and sympathetic. “It’s like you’re always stuck playing a part, pretending to be something you’re not. And the longer you keep it up, the harder it is to let go.”

She is silent for a moment. As she studies me, I give her a smile. “I know I am handsome, but don’t check me out so shamelessly, Ms. Anya,” I joke.

She doesn’t crack the smile that I was hoping to see. “You seem to understand this way better than you should.” She narrows her eyes, observing me.

“I guess empathy is my thing,” I chuckle, trying to remain casual. But she doesn’t take her eyes off me, studying me intently for a few more beats, as if trying to see past the surface.

“Is that so?” Her gaze feels like a physical weight, and despite my lighthearted attempt to dismiss the question, I can feel her seeing past my casual facade. “Okay,” she says slowly. I can see she’s not fully convinced, but she lets it go, and I sigh silently.

We sit in silence for a while, the distant hum of the party fading into the background. She sits close enough for me to feel the warmth of her presence, and somehow, it’s all I can focus on.

“You should go. I don’t want to keep you from enjoying the party,” she says softly, her voice carrying just enough uncertainty to make me glance at her.

“I’d rather stay here,” I reply, surprising even myself.

“Why?” she whispers, her gaze meeting mine for a brief moment before flickering away. There’s a vulnerability in her tone, a softness that calls to me in a way that has me shifting in place.

“Because I want to,” I say, as if that’s enough of an explanation. And maybe it is, for now.

Our fingers brush, a fleeting touch that sends a spark up my arm. I glance down at her hand, then at her, watching the way her lips part ever so slightly. Did she feel that too?

The moment lingers, heavy and charged, and I’m not sure what to do with it. Her fingers remain where they are, barely grazing mine. It’s such a small gesture, not even a proper touch, but I can’t seem to ignore it.

She’s trouble. I know it without needing to put it into words. The way she carries herself, the way her presence pulls me in without even trying—it’s unsettling. I barely know her, yet she’s in my head now, taking up space I didn’t realize was vacant.

Trouble because I shouldn’t be here, sitting with her while the rest of the party blurs into irrelevance. Trouble because I can’t stop noticing the delicate curve of her profile in the moonlight, the soft sweep of her hair, or the way her lips press together when she thinks.

I shouldn’t be so aware of her. But I am. And that’s why staying here feels like the worst idea I’ve had in a long time.

Her eyes flicker down to our hands, and for a moment, she seems to hesitate as if confused whether she should pull away or not. But she doesn’t. I suddenly find myself wishing she would shift a little closer, hold onto me tighter. The silence stretches between us, but it’s not awkward. Our fingers remain touching, sending small jolts of electricity through me every time they move even slightly. I can’t help but wonder if she’s feeling the same way.

I sneak a glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge her thoughts. Her expression is unreadable, focused on the horizon, her lower lip caught slightly between her teeth. I link my pinkie with hers, waiting for her to push away. When she doesn’t, I sigh in relief. The small gesture feels intimate—almost more intimate than a full handhold. I look away and take a deep breath.

“I don’t think I told you,” I say, and she looks at me, her brows furrowed. “You look beautiful.” Her expression softens and a small smile forms on her lips. The compliment seems to catch her off-guard.

“Thank you,” she replies quietly, her gaze flickering away. “You look handsome, too,” she says after a moment, her gaze drifting to my face.

She takes a deep breath, her fingers wrapping tightly around mine, making my heart thump in my chest. I smile at her and slowly, our pinkies interlock tightly. Her grip is warm and comfortable. Her touch makes me feel strangely content.

“So, tell me something about yourself,” she says.

Her question catches me off guard. And against my better judgment, I ask,“What do you want to know?”

∞∞∞