LOVE IS A INTERNAL ARGUMENT: An Introverts romance🩰

Ballet

Atticus’s POV

I barely slept.

Not in a restless, haunted way—more in a * replaying-every-second-of-her-laugh * kind of way.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—Aliana Valencourt—standing under the soft glow of lakeside lights, her hair catching the breeze, her voice low but sure as she spoke about dancing, books, and why silence isn’t loneliness.

I kept hearing the sarcasm in her voice when she called herself a secret slut because a tabloid once decided she was sleeping with her sister’s boyfriend.

She said it dryly, with humor, but the fact she’d been dragged like that made something in my chest pull tight.

She comforted me, when she’s the one who’s lived through worse headlines.

And then the almost-kiss—

God.

If her phone hadn’t gone off…

I remind myself she’s soft-spoken, guarded, and careful. That if I move too fast, she’ll disappear back into the background she’s mastered.

But she didn’t disappear last night.

She stayed.

With me.

---

The Next Afternoon – The Everheart–Ashborne Office Lounge

Soren is flipping through architectural sketches on the table, Beckett is on his second espresso, and I’m staring at my phone like an i***t, rereading a single message Aliana sent:

“Thanks for the walk.”

Simple. Polite.

And I’ve read it… maybe eleven times.

Beckett glances up, expression already suspicious.

“I heard you took a nice little walk last night.”

I blink at him.

Soren freezes mid-step, turns so fast he nearly trips over the rug.

“Wait—what? You’re seeing someone?”

I roll my eyes. “It was just a walk. Too many people, too much noise. We both needed fresh air.”

Beckett raises a brow. “You needed ‘peace of mind’ with my sister-in-law?”

Soren snorts. “You’ve gotten protective fast.”

Beckett sets down his espresso, serious. “She is my sister-in-law. And I care about all of them. Of course I’m protective.”

Then he pins me with a look I’ve seen during negotiations.

“Atticus. I know you. I know you’re not a player. But sometimes you let the tabloids believe the rumors—you play into it. So I’m asking you plainly…”

A beat.

“…do you like her?”

I hesitate—not because I don’t know the answer, but because saying it feels like pressing a bruise I shouldn’t touch yet.

“I…”

I exhale.

“I think so. But we’re just friends.”

Soren mutters, “For now.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “Honestly, I’m surprised she even talked to me. Usually she pretends I’m not there.”

Soren and Beckett both laugh hard enough to echo.

“She pretends we’re not there,” Soren says. “It’s her love language.”

“Silence,” Beckett adds sagely. “Selective presence.”

Their teasing fades, and Beckett’s voice lowers just a fraction.

“Pure intentions, Atticus. Anything but pure intentions… Adriana will murder you.”

I grin. “Oh, so no threats from you?”

“Oh, I’m threatening you,” Beckett says, clapping my shoulder. “But Adriana? She can be scarier if she wants.”

Soren smirks. “He’s obsessed with her.”

Beckett lifts his chin, smug. “She reminds me of… myself.”

Soren and I exchange the same look.

“Factory settings restored,” we say in unison.

Beckett grins like the king of a kingdom only he understands.

And I—the one who never takes anything seriously—find myself thinking:

If I’m going to do this… if I’m going to be in her orbit… I can’t screw it up.

Not with Aliana.

Not with the girl who notices everything—

even me.

....

Aliana — Not a Date (But… Kind Of)

It’s been three days.

Three days since the gala.

Three days since a walk that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

Three days since Atticus Everheart looked at me with that quiet, disarming sincerity that I’m still trying to shake.

We’ve texted. Light things. Soft things.

This morning, he messaged:

Atticus:

Are you busy tonight?

I stared at the screen longer than I’d ever admit.

Me:

Not really. Why?

A beat. Then:

Atticus:

Want to hang out?

Not fancy. Not social. Just us.

My stomach dipped.

Just us.

I typed back before my brain could interfere.

Me:

Okay.

And that’s how I ended up at the front entrance of a small theater in Manhattan, wondering why he told me to dress “comfortable but nice” and why he looks so smug standing beside me in a charcoal coat.

“Atticus,” I say slowly, “why does this place look familiar?”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets like he didn’t put thought into this.

“Maybe because you mentioned you used to perform here.”

My breath catches.

“I only mentioned that once.”

“And I was listening.”

He pushes the door open, nodding toward the softly lit lobby.

Inside, posters line the walls—this season’s winter ballet showcase.

My heart squeezes.

“You brought me to a ballet?”

His smile curves, small and genuine.

“I asked you what you loved. You told me dancing. So…” He gestures. “Here we are.”

I hate that I feel tears prick behind my eyes.

I hate even more that he notices.

“You don’t have to look so touched,” he teases lightly. “You’re going to make me feel like I did something dramatic.”

“This is dramatic,” I whisper. “In a good way.”

He gives me that soft smile—the one that doesn’t match the tabloids at all.

“Come on. We’ll miss the overture.”

---

Inside the Theater

We take our seats—close enough to see the dancers’ breaths but far enough from the stage lights that I don’t feel exposed.

I’m quiet. More than usual.

Atticus doesn’t speak either.

He just glances at me every so often, checking if I’m okay.

When the curtains rise and the music washes over the room, something inside me cracks open.

The stage glows. The dancers leap in synchronized arcs.

Muscle memory stirs in my limbs like an old friend.

I used to live here—floating, spinning, breathing in count.

And now I’m sitting beside a man who brought me back to it without asking for anything in return.

Halfway through the performance, my voice comes out barely above a breath.

“I do miss it.”

His head turns immediately.

“Dancing?”

I nod. “It felt like… belonging. Like I wasn’t alone on stage. Being part of a group—everyone moving like one body. It wasn’t like performing alone.”

His gaze softens, warm and thoughtful.

“That suits you,” he murmurs. “You’re not someone who wants a spotlight. You’re someone who makes a moment more beautiful by being in it.”

My cheeks warm.

Dangerously.

“That sounds like flirting,” I say quietly.

“It’s not.”

Then he pauses.

“…unless you want it to be.”

I don’t look at him again until the applause.

And when I do, he already knows I’m smiling.

After the Ballet — Banter Revision

When we step outside, the night hits cool against my skin.

Atticus shoves his hands into his coat pockets, rocking back on his heels like he doesn’t want the night to end.

“So,” he says casually, but the spark in his eyes betrays him.

“Did you enjoy hanging out with me?”

I pretend to think about it.

Hum. Consider. Ponder deeply.

Then I grimace — playfully.

His posture straightens immediately.

He is suddenly very alert.

“Oh no,” he mutters. “What was that face? Aliana, what—”

“Mm, I don’t know, Atticus…” I say, scratching the side of my head dramatically like I’m weighing a difficult moral decision.

He looks a little panicked.

Which… is fun.

“Aliana,” he says, voice low. “What? What is it?”

I sigh, step closer, and say solemnly:

“You are far too thoughtful for your own good.”

There’s a beat.

A slow blink.

Then—

Atticus exhales, a laugh escaping as the tension drains from his shoulders.

“I see,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

“So this is who you are when you’re comfortable.”

“Who?” I ask, innocent.

“Devious,” he declares. “Unexpectedly devious.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t being devious.”

“You absolutely were,” he insists. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Well,” I say softly, “now you know what it feels like.”

His smile lingers — warm, amazed, a little dazzled — like he’s seeing a new side of me and loves it.

And then, quietly:

“Still worth it.”

.

“