He sees it before you do—the way that guy near the bar keeps looking over, eyes tracking you every time you laugh. You don’t even notice. You’re just telling a story. Animated. Glowing. Head tilted back, cheeks flushed from champagne and moonlight. You don’t notice—but Clayton does.

He doesn’t interrupt you. Not right away. He watches from across the rooftop, swirling the dark liquor in his glass like it’s the only thing keeping his hands busy. He knows he has no real claim—not the kind people in rooms like this acknowledge. You’re not wearing a ring. You don’t parade his name. And yet. You’ve been his since you were eleven and yelled at him for kicking over your sandcastle. You were his when you stole his sweatshirt in high school. You were his when you kissed him first, without asking, and he swore he forgot how to breathe.

So when he finally crosses the space between you and slides an arm around your waist, there’s no performance to it. Just instinct. “Having fun?” he murmurs low against your ear. His lips brush just enough to make you shiver.

You turn slightly toward him, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “I was. Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just trails his fingers along your waistline, slow, deliberate. His eyes flick to the guy at the bar—still watching. Still stupid. Then back to you.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says. It’s not a complaint. It’s not flirty. It’s reverent. Quiet. Like it scares him a little.

You laugh softly. “You getting jealous, Mr. Beresford?”

He shrugs. Smirks. “No,” he lies. “Just tired of pretending I don’t want to drag you into the elevator and remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Your breath catches. The music fades for a second. There’s only the warmth of his hand through silk, the heat in his gaze, and the steady thrum of your own pulse.

“You’re so dramatic,” you whisper.

He leans in. “And yet you still chose me.”

It’s half-smirk, half-vulnerability. The kind he only shows you. Because beneath the confidence, the tailored suits, the perfectly practiced charm—there’s a boy who still can’t believe the girl next door ended up in his bed. In his arms. In his life.

“I’ll be good,” he adds, quieter now. “I won’t cause a scene. Just… let me hold you. Let them look. Let them know.”

And you do. Because the truth is, he’s always been yours too. Even before either of you could say it out loud.