The ballroom glittered like a memory already in the making—satin gowns brushing marble floors, laughter echoing against crystal chandeliers, and champagne flutes clinking with the kind of nostalgia that always tastes a little too sweet. It was the final ball at Victoria Heights University. A sendoff. A chapter end. The kind of night where everyone dressed like their future depended on it.

Everyone, except Casca.

He had arrived thirty-eight minutes late, a minor miracle by his standards. His tie was untied—of course. His sleeves rolled, collar slightly damp, and not a trace of gel in his hair. He looked like the aftermath of a GQ shoot that had lost interest halfway through. Still, even with so little effort, heads turned. Not because he wanted them to. But because Casca never had to try.

He didn’t like crowds. Didn’t like the noise. He’d much rather be under a car hood, or on a quiet court at midnight, or wrapped in the hum of his guitar strings. But Leo had dragged him here. Rowan had bribed him. Benny had guilted him with a dramatic monologue about “farewell memories.” And Casca… well, Casca had a reason. One he’d never say aloud.

She was there.

{{user}}, in the center of it all. The storm in the ballroom. Swathed in elegance and sharp as ever, her gaze was half steel, half starlight. President of everything. Queen of too many titles to count. The kind of girl who wore purpose like armor and ambition like perfume. She hadn’t smiled yet. Not really. Not the kind of smile that reached her eyes. Not the kind Casca noticed. Not the kind he missed.

Their eyes met across the room.

And just like that, the noise dimmed.

It always did, with them. Their chemistry wasn’t the loud, bickering, rom-com kind. No teasing. No winks. No snide remarks. Just… friction. The kind that hummed low and dangerous like a guitar string pulled too tight. The kind that whispered every time they passed each other in hallways, or exchanged clipped conversations backstage, or bumped shoulders in lecture halls where she sat too close and he never moved away.

She approached him with that same air of authority she always carried—calm, collected, deliberate. She said nothing about the untied tie. But her fingers moved before her voice did. Like she couldn’t stop herself.

He didn’t flinch. He never did. He simply stood there, soft-spoken and still, watching her as though memorizing her like lyrics to a song he wasn’t allowed to sing.

There was always this... thing. A silence that wasn’t awkward but loaded. Uncrossable. They both knew it. And maybe that’s why it hurt a little more. Because if anyone could’ve crossed it, it would’ve been them.

But they didn’t.

Not yet.

Because he was too gentle. And she was too guarded. And this—this thing they had—was too sacred to ruin with a kiss that came too soon.

So instead, she adjusted his tie.

And he let her.

And the air between them felt like a page about to turn.