7.0 #2
His voice made my stomach unclench a little. But it didn't quiet the other thought, the one that kept circling: How could he?
How could the same man who stuffed rubber-banded bills in drawers, who kept gloves tucked under couches, move so comfortably in this room? His uncle the almost-president. These people laughed with him like he wasn't hustling in ways they'd lock a stranger up for.
I didn't get it. And worse-I wasn't sure I wanted to.
A cluster of women in jewel-toned gowns drifted past, their perfume trailing heavy, their laughter sharp.
One of them caught Kian's eye, recognition flashing before she slipped him a nod.
He returned it, casual, unbothered. Like he belonged to every circle at once-street corners and gala floors alike.
Kian's hand tightened at my waist, a subtle pressure that cut through the noise. He leaned down, close enough that his cologne curled into my breath.
"You ready to get out of here?" he asked, tone low, steady. Not really a question.
Part of me wanted to protest, to say I hadn't processed half of what just happened. The other part-the one that felt eyes sliding past me like I was invisible-was relieved.
"Yeah," I said, softer than I meant to.
He kissed my temple once, casual enough that anyone watching would see nothing but a man with his girl. Then he turned us toward the exit, guiding me through the press of bodies with a certainty that made people part without being asked.
On the way out, I caught Bryan's voice carrying again, his laugh booming, his glass lifted. Politics was theater, and he was the headliner. I wondered if he even noticed Kian slipping out early.
Outside, the air hit cooler, cleaner. The crowd hadn't thinned-the flashes still strobed, the press line still shouted questions-but Kian didn't slow. Monte had the car already pulled around, door open, headlights bouncing against the marble facade.
I slid in first, the dress tightening across my thighs. Kian followed, shutting the door with a finality that silenced the chaos outside.
Inside, the city felt far away again.
"Good call?" he asked, watching me in the dim light.
"Good call," I said, though my chest was still tight.
The car pulled forward, the noise fading into the rearview.
The city moved like it always did-fast enough to make you dizzy if you stared too hard. Neon lights bled into one another, red tail lamps streaking through the windshield, streetlamps flashing across Kian's profile in intervals that made him look carved out of shadow and gold.
The bass of the track vibrating low through the car should've steadied me-it usually did. Nights like this, riding shotgun with him, the city folding itself open around us, always felt like a pocket of calm. But tonight my chest was tight, my head a mess.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the cool glass, watching people spill out of bars, laughing too loud, women tugging their heels off and walking barefoot on sidewalks. The smell of summer rain clung to the air even though it hadn't rained, the kind of stickiness Philly was famous for.
And still-Brooks.
Brooks standing there, polished down to the last hair, jaw set, eyes cutting through me like he'd never forgotten either. Brooks saying "nice to meet you" like we were strangers who hadn't once built and broken a whole world together.
Four years. Four years of silence, of building my life brick by brick, of promising myself I wouldn't think about him anymore. And one glance shattered all that discipline.
"You quiet back there," Kian said, voice pulling me back into the car. His hand rested loose on the wheel, chain glinting against his chest each time we passed under a light. "Look like you seen a ghost."
I turned toward him, tried to smooth my voice. "I'm fine."
He gave me a sidelong look, smirk tugging at his mouth. "That senator boy though. He look like he think he's perfect."
The words landed sharp in my chest. I knew he meant it as a joke, a throwaway jab, but my mouth moved too fast. "He's not like that."
It came out harder than I wanted. Defensive.
Kian's eyes flicked to me, brow lifting just enough. "Not like what?"
Heat climbed my throat. I scrambled for something, anything to cover. "Just... not perfect." My voice dropped. "Nobody's that perfect."
"I'm already knowing my uncle and him gonna bump heads."
I almost smiled. Almost. "Probably."
"Whole room moved when they said his name," he added, not impressed, not jealous-observant. "Bryan love a show."
I didn't trust my voice, so I kept quiet.
I shifted in my seat, heart hammering against my ribs. Why had I said that? Why did I care enough to defend him? The instinct was buried deep, old muscle memory, the kind that still fired even when I thought I'd cut all the wires.
I hated myself for it.
The city rolled by-Broad Street alive with headlights, buses sighing at corners, kids with bikes weaving between cars like the night belonged to them. Everything outside the window looked busy, sharp, loud. Inside the car, it felt like I was underwater.
Kian's hand tapped against the wheel in rhythm with the beat, steady, unbothered. His posture was relaxed, shoulders loose, jaw easy. He wasn't the type to fidget, to overthink. He was here, now, present in ways that used to calm me.
But all I could feel was the bruise of Brooks's gaze, still pressed against me.
I thought about the man I saw tonight, Senator Whitmore, Bryan's golden running mate, smiling that rehearsed smile.
And I thought about the boy I used to know-messy hair, lazy grin, stubborn streak a mile wide.
They didn't line up. Or maybe that was the problem: they lined up too well, the polish just burying what was already there.
Besos's sign came into view up ahead, glowing red and soft, velvet promise written across the front of the building.
Couples in sleek clothes lingered near the door, laughing, adjusting jackets, snapping selfies before stepping inside.