Aodhan's POV

She doesn't see me until I speak.
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

Her head turns, startled, and for a second I get the full effect of those eyes—bright, wary, unguarded. Most people meet my stare for half a breath before trying to impress me. She looks like she's calculating an exit.

"Maybe I would," she says, her voice steady even though I can see the pulse at her throat.

I smile a little. "Then let me give you a reason to stay."

She hesitates, glancing back toward the crowd where her friend is laughing with two men. She's alone now, shoulders squared like armor.

I extend a hand. "Dance with me."

She shakes her head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Perfect," I say, and that earns me a small, reluctant smile. The kind that slips out before she can stop it.

I don't wait for permission. I offer my hand again, and this time she takes it. Her fingers are warm, soft, trembling just a little. I guide her toward the floor as the song changes—bass heavier, slower, a rhythm made for proximity.

The crowd swallows us. Lights sweep across her face, turning her skin gold, her eyes darker. I rest a hand at the small of her back; she stiffens, then relaxes into the motion.

She smells faintly of vanilla and rain. Not perfume—just her.

"You don't come here often," I murmur.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Painfully."

She laughs under her breath. "And you? You seem like you own the place."

I take a slow breath. "Something like that."

Our bodies move closer with every beat until her breath brushes my collarbone. She's nervous but trying not to be, matching my rhythm, her fingertips brushing my shoulder for balance. It's the smallest touch and somehow more electric than anything else tonight.

"I should probably get back to my friend," she whispers.

"She looks busy," I say, nodding toward Nichole, who's wrapped around her latest admirer.

Roisin follows my gaze, then looks back at me. "You notice everything, don't you?"

"Occupational habit."

"What do you do?"

"Tonight? I'm working on a distraction."

Her mouth curves—not quite a smile, not quite surrender. "You're very sure of yourself."

"Only when I should be."

The song fades into another, the tempo shifting, but neither of us stops moving. She fits against me easily now, the earlier hesitation gone. I can feel the faint tremor of her laugh when I lean close and say something I don't remember—something low, meaningless, but it makes her look up at me through her lashes, and that's all it takes.

For a moment, everything else—the lights, the crowd, the noise—disappears. There's just her heartbeat against mine and the quiet shock of wanting someone I don't even know.

Then the music breaks, the spell loosens, and she steps back, breathing fast.

"I should go," she says again.

I let her hand slip from mine, but my voice follows her. "I never caught your name."

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "That's probably for the best."

She turns to leave, but I move before I think—my hand catching hers again.
"Don't go yet."

She hesitates, the pulse in her wrist quick under my thumb. Her eyes meet mine, and something passes between us. Not words. Not understanding. Just... recognition.

"This isn't me," she says softly.

"Then who is it?"

Her breath catches. "I don't know anymore."

I don't push. I only step closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. The music slows, dipping into something low and hypnotic. She doesn't step back.

We stand there in that fragile space between sense and surrender, the world dimming around us. I can smell her perfume, feel her heartbeat, hear my own thoughts blur into static.

"Let's get out of here," I hear myself say.

She looks up sharply, ready to argue—but her lips part without words. A quiet exhale. A decision.

⸻

The drive is silent. The city outside the tinted windows blurs into streaks of gold and shadow. I should say something. Instead, I watch her reflection—her hands fidgeting in her lap, her gaze fixed on the lights flashing by.

When we step into my penthouse, she stops just inside the door.

It's nothing but glass and skyline. New York spread out below us like another galaxy. The city hums faintly through the windows; the air smells of rain and whiskey.

"Nice view," she says, voice barely above a whisper.

"It's better now."

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the ghost of a smile before she looks away.

I offer her a drink. She refuses. I don't press.

The silence stretches—thick, charged, waiting for someone to break it. I move closer, slow enough for her to stop me if she wants to. She doesn't. Her chin tilts up when I reach to touch a stray strand of hair that's fallen against her cheek.

"Still think you don't belong here?" I murmur.

Her eyes lift to mine. "Maybe I was wrong."

It's the only permission I need.

The distance disappears. The night folds in on itself—city lights, soft breath, the sound of rain tapping against glass. Everything else fades.

⸻

For once, I don't feel in control.

She's quiet, but not timid. Every movement, every glance feels uncalculated, real. It's been years since I've felt that. Maybe ever.

When she finally falls asleep beside me, I lie awake longer than I mean to, watching the faint rise and fall of her shoulders, the outline of her face softened by moonlight.

I don't even know her name.

And somehow, that feels exactly right—and completely wrong.