April 18, 2027.
The Apex mixer was winding down.
Most people had left.
I’d had two glasses of wine—enough to feel warm, loose.
Ryan found me by the bar.
His tie loosened, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy.
He looked good.
Dangerously good.
We talked.
Laughed.
He leaned in close to hear me over the music.
His hand brushed my arm.
Stayed there.
Thumb stroking slow circles on my skin.
Heat spread.
Wrong.
But undeniable.
“Dance?” he asked.
One slow song left.
I nodded.
We moved to the small dance floor.
His hand on my lower back.
Pulling me close.
Bodies pressed.
Swaying.
His breath on my neck.
“You feel it,” he whispered.
I didn’t answer.
Just let my head rest on his shoulder for a second.
His hand slid lower.
Fingers splaying over the curve of my hip.
Grippin
