Beckett
The lights backstage had gone low, the kind of tired glow that made everything softer—less grand, more real.
The catering crew was already packing up, heels and laughter echoing down the hallway from the main ballroom.
I lingered near the curtain, one hand resting against the frame, not ready to leave yet.
Through the narrow gap, I could see her. Ellery.
She’d kicked off her heels somewhere between speeches and goodbyes, bare feet tucked beneath the edge of that ridiculous silver gown.
The train pooled around her like spilled light, a few strands of hair falling loose from the elegant twist she’d started the night with.
She wasn’t posing or smiling for anyone now—just standing there, quiet, looking out over the tables as if she was taking inventory of everything she’d built and everything it had cost her.
She looked wrecked and perfect at the same time.
Everyone else was celebrating. The sponsors, the donors, even some of the players—they were laughing, clinking glasses, taking pictures for socials.
The night was a success by every definition that mattered.
But she wasn’t part of it anymore. She stood a few steps apart, her shoulders tight, her expression calm in that way people look when they’ve been holding it together too long.
I told myself to walk away—to leave before she saw me hovering like an idiot—but I didn’t move.
She reached up, rubbing at the back of her neck, then bent to pick up a stray cue card from the floor.
It was such a small, human thing, and something in my chest twisted.
This woman had spent weeks breaking herself in half to pull this night off, and she was still the one cleaning up after everyone else.
I wanted to go to her. Say something. Anything. But what did you say to someone who already did everything right? Congratulations? She’d heard it all night. You’re incredible? She’d brush it off. You deserve better? That would give away too much.
The curtain rustled slightly, and she turned her head just enough that I caught a glimpse of her face in the dim light. There was no performance left in it. No mask. Just Ellery—exhausted, proud, a little broken, and somehow still standing taller than anyone else in the room.
I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe, feeling that strange pull again. The one that made me want to step forward even when I knew I shouldn’t.
You’re supposed to keep your distance, Mason. Remember?
Except distance didn’t feel like protection anymore. It felt like cowardice.
She started gathering her things—a clipboard, a purse, that stubborn professionalism she wore like armor. When she glanced my way through the curtain, our eyes caught for a second before she looked down again.
That tiny flicker of recognition was enough to undo me.
I stepped closer before I could talk myself out of it, the curtain brushing against my shoulder.
She didn’t notice me right away—she was still standing there, eyes distant, fingers fidgeting with the stem of an empty champagne glass.
When she finally turned, the surprise in her face softened into something small, tired, but still beautiful.
“You did it,” I said quietly. "I know I said it before but… you're incredible."
She blinked, then smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks. I’m just trying to remember how to breathe again.”
I held out the bottle of water I’d been carrying around like an idiot. “Here. Hydration. Very glamorous.”
She laughed, weakly at first, then more genuine as she twisted off the cap. “Always prepared,” she said.
I shrugged. “Occupational hazard of babysitting drunk girls.”
That earned me a real laugh—soft and low, the kind that hit somewhere deep. The kind that undid me every damn time.
For a second, the world seemed to shrink around us.
The chatter from the ballroom faded to a dull hum.
The air smelled faintly of champagne and roses, her perfume cutting through it like something warmer, familiar.
Her makeup was starting to smudge at the corners, the gloss gone from her lips, and somehow that made her even harder to look at.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked finally, breaking the silence.
I smirked. “I didn’t spill anything or start a fight. That’s progress.”
Her smile grew a little steadier. “You clean up well, Mason.”
I wanted to tell her she was the one who looked unreal, standing there barefoot in a dress meant for people who never worked a day in their lives. I wanted to tell her how proud she should be. But I didn’t trust myself to keep it casual, so I just said, “You make running an empire look easy.”
She rolled her eyes. “You mean controlled chaos?”
“That’s still more control than most people manage.”
The humor faded from her face, replaced by something quieter. She looked down at the floor, then back at me. “Thanks. Really.”
The word was small, but it carried everything—gratitude, exhaustion, maybe even relief. And I knew right then I’d walk through fire if it meant I could keep hearing her say it like that.
Her shoulders relaxed. She took another sip of water and glanced toward the curtain where the music from the ballroom spilled through. “I should go back out there before Naomi sends a search party.”
“Yeah,” I said, though I didn’t move.
She hesitated, meeting my eyes for just a moment longer than she should have. “Thanks for the water. And for… being here.”
I nodded, because if I opened my mouth, I’d say something stupid. Something true.
I opened my mouth to say something—something that might’ve been you did it or I’m proud of you—but the words stalled when she reached for me instead.
“You can’t show up this handsome and ruin it with a lazy knot,” she murmured, fingers brushing the edge of my tie.
The faintest smile tugged at her lips, but it didn’t hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Her movements were careful, precise, like she needed something steady to hold onto.
I swallowed. “That why you keep finding excuses to fix it?”
Her gaze flicked up just briefly, the corner of her mouth curving. “Maybe.”
Her voice had gone quieter now, her hands working at the knot with small, practiced motions.
I could smell the faint trace of her perfume—champagne and gardenia, soft and dizzying.
The scent hit me harder than it should have.
She was close enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath against my throat, close enough that I could see where a single strand of hair had escaped its pin and curled against her cheek.
Her fingers trembled once—barely noticeable, but I caught it.
If she looks up right now, I’m gone.
I tried to breathe evenly, tried to think of something sharp to say, something that would break the spell. But the world had narrowed to her touch—the brush of silk against my collar, the whisper of her skin against mine, the space between us thinning to nothing.
“You’re still fidgeting,” she said softly.
“Maybe I’m allergic to being this close to you,” I managed.
She laughed quietly; the sound vibrating in the small space between us. “You’re impossible.”
I smiled, even though my pulse was hammering. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
Her fingers stilled on the knot. For a long, suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved. The air between us shifted—less teasing now, heavier. The kind of quiet that hummed before a storm.
When she finally looked up, it was like being hit with the full force of something I’d been pretending not to feel. Her eyes found mine—wide, uncertain, searching—and I knew that if I didn’t step back right then, I wouldn’t.
“You, uh—” she cleared her throat, dropping her hands quickly. “There. Perfect.”
Her voice sounded steadier than mine would’ve.
“Thanks,” I said, low. “Guess I’ll try not to ruin it.”
She smiled again—soft, brittle around the edges. “Good luck with that.”
We both knew we weren’t talking about the tie anymore.
I shoved my hands in my pockets just to keep from reaching for her again, from brushing that stray curl off her cheek, from doing all the things I’d been holding back for weeks.
“Ellery,” I said quietly.
She blinked. “Yeah?”
But before I could say it—before I could let the truth slip past the thin line I’d drawn between us—someone called her name from down the hall.
She stepped back, already slipping her professional mask into place. “I should go.”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smirk I didn’t feel. “Go save the world, James.”
She looked up.
And that was it.
Whatever she saw in my face—whatever I’d been too tired or too careless to hide—stopped her movement cold. Her fingers froze on my tie, the silk half-twisted between us, her breath catching in the space that suddenly felt too small to hold.
“Ellery—don’t—” I said, but it wasn’t a warning. It came out quiet, rough—more plea than protest. Because part of me didn’t want her to stop.
She hesitated for half a second, eyes searching mine. Then she rose onto her toes and kissed me.
It was soft at first, almost uncertain, like she was testing if it would break us. Then it deepened, slow and deliberate, and the air went out of my lungs. I didn’t think—didn’t have time to. One heartbeat of shock, and then every wall between us just gave way.
The taste of champagne lingered on her lips, mixed with something I couldn’t name—sweet and sharp and dangerous. My hands found her waist before I could stop them, her fingers clutching the lapels of my jacket like she wasn’t sure whether to pull me closer or push me away.
The world outside that moment didn’t exist. Not the noise of the ballroom, not the lights, not the fact that we were both supposed to know better. Just her—soft, trembling, impossibly close.
When she finally pulled back, she was breathing hard, eyes wide, lips parted. Her hands were still gripping my suit like she didn’t trust her knees.
“I’m not this girl,” she whispered.
I shook my head, voice low. “I know.”
She blinked, searching me again, the words catching like splinters. “No, you don’t.”