The cameras flashed in rapid succession, the air buzzing with the kind of energy only red carpets could create. My fingers were laced with Thomas', and though I told myself it was just for show, my pulse betrayed me. His grip was warm, steady—too natural for something meant to be fake.

"You alright?" His voice was low, just for me, cutting through the chaos like a tether.

I tilted my head up, meeting those sharp, knowing eyes. "Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?"

He smirked, the kind that made my stomach flip. "Because you’re squeezing my hand like I’m your lifeline."

Heat rushed to my face, and I quickly loosened my grip. "Sorry. Guess I’m just... playing my part."

Thomas chuckled, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that made it very hard to breathe. "If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually liked holding my hand."

I rolled my eyes, but my heart was hammering. "You wish, Sangster."

"Do I?" he mused, but there was something different in his tone—something that made my breath hitch.

Before I could say anything else, a reporter called out, "Thomas! Are you two making it official?"

I expected him to do what we always did—laugh it off, make a joke. But instead, he looked at me, really looked at me, like he was seeing something new.

His fingers tightened around mine. "What do you think, love?"