The gala is glittering — crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, strings of jazz humming through velvet-draped rooms. You look like money. He looks like sin.

You weren’t even supposed to be near him tonight. You told your friends you’d behave.

But then your eyes met across the ballroom. Like they always do.

One charged look from Xavier — jaw clenched, fingers wrapped around his drink like he’s imagining it’s your throat — and you knew you were in trouble.

Now you’re pressed against the marble bathroom counter, one leg lifted, dress hiked, breath hitched. He has you pinned like you’re his — and maybe you are, at least tonight.

You gasp softly. “Xavier—someone could walk in.”

He grins against your skin, lips hot on your neck. “Then don’t moan.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “This is not what we agreed—”

“We agreed not to catch feelings,” he mutters, trailing kisses down your collarbone, “We didn’t say anything about powder room quickies.”

You want to snap something back, but his hand slides up your thigh, and your brain short-circuits.

“You wore this dress for me,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

“No,” you lie, breathless. “I wore it because I knew you’d be here.”

He groans into your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

He kisses you like an answer — all heat and bite, like he’s been starving since the moment you walked in. You kiss back harder.

But then—

A voice outside the door.

“Xav? You in there?”

Your stomach drops.

It’s his best friend.

Xavier freezes. You both hold your breath.

“…You good?” the voice calls again. “We’re about to do speeches.”

A pause. Then Xavier calls out, voice miraculously even: “Yeah. Just—fixing something.”

He glances at you. Lips kiss-swollen. Hair wrecked. Eyes wild.

You whisper, mortified, “I look like I’ve been mauled.”

He smirks. “You look like mine.”

You shove him lightly. “Go. I’ll sneak out in two minutes.”

He fixes his tie in the mirror, then catches your eyes through the reflection.

“You’re still coming home with me.”

It’s not a question.

You sigh. “Obviously.”

He disappears into the noise and light of the party.

You’re left gripping the counter, chest heaving, lipstick smudged, heart racing.

This was supposed to be casual.