It started at the gala. Velvet gowns and crystal chandeliers filled the ballroom with an air of sophistication, but you never did fit in with the silk and champagne crowd. And neither did he.

Tord stood by the bar in a tailored black suit, whiskey in hand, red tie slightly loosened. You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since the last argument that ended with slammed doors and the kind of silence that leaves you hollow for days.

You told yourself you wouldn’t approach him. You’d grown past him—past the chaos, the games, the twisted little dance you always seemed to fall into. But then his eyes met yours, and it all unraveled.

“You clean up well,” he murmured as you walked past, his voice low, velvet-like, dangerous.

You paused. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Likewise,” he replied, tilting his glass. “Guess fate has a cruel sense of humor.”

The music shifted. Something jazzy, rich and intoxicating. Like the energy between you. One moment you were standing apart, the next, your bodies were swaying in sync on the dance floor, fingers grazing, breaths catching.

“You always do this,” you said quietly, unable to look away from his eyes. “Pull me back in like I don’t know better.”

“And yet,” he smirked, spinning you gently, “here we are. Tangled up again.”

You hated how right he was. Every step, every turn, was a confession you couldn’t speak aloud. He held you like he still knew you, like he still remembered how your pulse reacted when he whispered too close. And damn it—you remembered too.

But this wasn’t love. It was a storm with silk gloves. The kind of connection that left lipstick on shirt collars and scars beneath the skin. You two weren’t meant to be—but somehow, you always found your way back into each other’s arms.

As the night drew on and the world blurred into shadows and music, you let yourself forget the past. Just for tonight.

One more dance. One more slip into the tangled web of him