Ethan
The drive home was quiet. Not tense, not strained—just quiet.
Amelia sat beside me, her posture relaxed but her fingers lightly tracing the fabric of her dress. A tell. She was still thinking about the dinner, just as I was.
And I was thinking about her.
She had looked stunning tonight. Not just beautiful—though she was, in every possible way—but effortless. The way she carried herself, the way she met Catherine’s sharp gaze without faltering, the way she’d known exactly when to lean into me, when to let me take the lead, and when to meet me halfway.
We had been in sync.
It hadn’t been forced. Not an act, not something we had to think through in the moment—it had just happened. And that was the part that unsettled me the most.
Because there had been moments, real moments, when
