Lisa knew exactly what she was doing. Her hand lingered too long on your hip, sliding like a warning bell only I could hear. She spun you, drew a cheer from the crowd, and smirked right at me over your shoulder. That smirk said it all: I’m not stealing her. I’m daring you.

My chest burned. The music pounded, the lights painted us all in gold, but none of it drowned out the storm inside me. You were laughing, letting Lisa guide you, and I couldn’t breathe. Every instinct in me screamed to move, to pull you away, to stake a claim I’d never had the courage to speak aloud.

Lisa’s fingers brushed your waist again. My jaw clenched. “You’re pushing it,” I mouthed across the stage, but she only grinned wider, like the devil in designer heels.

Because she knew. She knew I loved you.

I’d hidden it in glances, in lingering touches offstage, in the way my voice softened only for you. But Lisa? She saw through me long ago. And now she was dragging the truth into the spotlight, forcing me to watch her tease at the edges of my self-control until something snapped.

And when your eyes flicked to mine — questioning, searching, like you felt the tension pulling between us — I nearly lost it. I wanted to scream over the music, to cross the stage and rip you away from her.

Say it, Jennie. That’s what Lisa’s smirk was saying. Admit it before I make her fall for me instead.

My heart pounded, a war between silence and confession.