Five hundred donors fill the hotel ballroom, their voices blending into a low roar beneath crystal chandeliers and the soft strains of a live jazz quartet. University trustees cluster near the bar while local press photographers circle like sharks scenting blood, and everywhere I look there are faces I should recognize but can't quite place.
I'm wearing a green dress—emerald silk that clings in all the right places and pools at my feet like liquid. I tell myself I forgot it's his favorite color when I pulled it from my closet, that the choice was random, meaningless. The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
Ethan appears beside me, and my breath catches before I can stop it. The tailored suit transforms him into something devastating—sharp lines and dark fabric that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow cut of his waist. His hair is styled back from his face, and when he smiles at me, I forget for a moment that five hundred people are watching.
"You clean up nice," I manage, keeping my voice light.
"You look incredible." His eyes travel down my body slowly, deliberately, heat flickering in their depths. "Green."
"It was the only thing in my closet that fit the dress code."
"Liar." But he's smiling, offering his arm like we've done this a thousand times.
We work the room together, and the performance comes easier than I expected. His hand finds the small of my back—warm through the thin silk, possessive in a way that should feel like a brand but instead feels like coming home. I catch myself leaning into his touch instead of away, my body seeking his warmth without permission from my brain.
Donors approach us in waves, shaking hands, making small talk about the basketball program and draft projections and how lovely it is to see young love in the modern age. Ethan handles them with easy charm, deflecting personal questions while making everyone feel important. I smile and nod and try not to notice how his thumb traces small circles against my spine.
"The Hendersons want to meet you," Vance materializes at my elbow, all polished smiles and calculating eyes. "Major donors, very influential. And afterward, a dance would photograph beautifully."
The quartet shifts into something slower, something intimate, and couples begin drifting toward the dance floor. Ethan's hand slides from my back to my hip, guiding me forward before I can protest.
"One dance," he murmurs against my ear. "For the cameras."
We both know it's not just for the cameras.
He leads me onto the floor and pulls me close, one hand splayed across my lower back while the other captures my fingers against his chest. The position presses our bodies together from shoulder to hip, and I can feel every line of him through the thin barrier of our clothes—the hard planes of his chest, the coiled strength in his thighs, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"Relax," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "You're stiff as a board."
"I'm being professional."
"You're being terrified." His hand slides lower on my back, settling just above the curve of my ass, and my spine arches involuntarily into his touch. "Better."
We move together, and my body remembers things my mind has tried to forget. The way we fit, his height and my curves aligning like puzzle pieces designed for each other. His hand burns through the silk of my dress, fingers spreading wide to claim as much skin as the fabric allows.
He pulls me closer, and I feel his heartbeat against my palm—rapid, unsteady, matching the chaos in my own chest. His thigh slides between mine as we turn, and the pressure sends heat pooling low in my stomach. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
"You look incredible tonight," he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck.
"Vance told you to say that."
"Vance doesn't know you wore my favorite color." His lips graze my pulse point, feather-light and devastating. "Or that you're wearing the same perfume from high school. The one you used to spray on my pillow so I'd think of you when you weren't there."
My breath catches audibly, my fingers tightening on his shoulder. He remembered. Three years apart and he still remembers the perfume, the color, the small details that shouldn't matter but somehow mean everything.
His hand traces up my spine, fingertips dragging along each vertebra through the silk, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I shiver despite the warmth of the ballroom, and he pulls me impossibly closer, his chest solid against my breasts, his hips aligned with mine in a way that makes rational thought difficult.
"I've been thinking about you in this dress all night," he breathes against my ear. "Thinking about peeling it off you."
"Ethan." His name comes out strangled, half warning, half plea.
"I've been thinking about your skin underneath." His hand slides to my hip, thumb stroking the curve of bone through fabric. "About the sounds you make when someone touches you right."
My legs threaten to buckle. I'm grateful for his arm around my waist, holding me upright, because I'm not sure I could stand on my own. The music swells around us, but I can't hear anything except his voice and the thunder of his heartbeat against my palm.
He turns us slowly, and his thigh presses between mine again—deliberate this time, intentional. The friction makes me gasp, my hips rolling forward before I can stop them, seeking more contact. His breath catches against my neck, and I feel his body respond to mine, hard and unmistakable against my hip.
"Do you feel that?" His voice is rough, barely controlled. "That's what you do to me. What you've always done to me."
The song ends, and we stand frozen on the dance floor, breathing hard, bodies still pressed together. Around us, couples separate and applaud the quartet, but neither of us moves. I'm not sure I can.
His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, and he guides me off the floor toward the balcony doors. I should resist, should make an excuse, should remember that five hundred people are watching and this is supposed to be fake. Instead, I follow him into the cool night air like he's pulling me by an invisible thread.
The balcony is empty, city lights glittering below us like scattered diamonds. The noise of the party fades to a murmur as the doors close behind us, and suddenly we're alone—really alone—for the first time since the equipment room.
He turns to face me, his expression raw in the moonlight. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone the way it did during the dance, and I see the question in his eyes before he leans in.
I want it. I want him—his mouth, his hands, his body against mine without five hundred witnesses. I want to stop pretending that any of this is fake, that my response to him is performance, that I haven't been falling since the moment he walked back into my life.
But I put my hand on his chest instead, feeling his heart pound beneath my palm.
"We can't."
He stops, his lips inches from mine. "Why not?"
"Because if I kiss you now, I won't be able to pretend anymore." My voice cracks, and I hate how vulnerable it sounds. "And I'm not ready for this to be real."
He stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression—hurt, understanding, patience. His hand drops from my face, and the loss of contact feels like grief.
"Okay," he says quietly. "When you're ready."
I walk away before I can change my mind, before my body overrides my brain and pulls him close again. The ballroom swallows me in noise and light and the performance I'm supposed to be giving, but I can still feel his eyes on my back.
I don't look back. But I feel his gaze following me the entire way out, burning through the green silk like a brand I'll never be able to remove.