The ballroom sparkles with chandeliers and the soft murmur of laughter. You glide across the dance floor with Royce, your elegant blue dress sways with each step, catching the light. Heath is just across the room, impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo, a matching blue pocket square tucked neatly into his pocket, one of the men you’ve grown to care for— the one whose presence makes your chest tighten, whose every move has drawn your attention these past weeks.

After the song ends, you excuse yourself from Royce and make your way toward the bathroom. That’s when you notice him— Heath. He slips quietly through a side door, completely unaware that you’ve seen him. Curiosity tugs at you, and before you can stop yourself, you follow.

The room he enters is dimly lit, far from the gala’s glittering surface. Heath stands still, his posture stiffening. He murmurs something under his breath, low and urgent, almost like a chant. His fingers twitch, and for a moment, the confident, charming man disappears.

A shiver runs down your spine. You should be scared— and maybe you are, though you force yourself to mask it, not letting him see your unease.

Then, something shifts. His eyes go hollow, staring blankly ahead. The familiar warmth in his gaze vanishes, replaced by a cold, empty distance. He repeats a phrase over and over, almost mechanically, words that make your chest tighten: “I didn’t mean to… it’s too late… it’s too late…”

You freeze, heart pounding, torn between fear and the compulsion to reach for him. Part of you wants to run, but another part aches to anchor him, to pull him back from whatever darkness has taken hold.

Then, just as suddenly, he blinks, and the tension leaves his body. His eyes clear, his tuxedo-perfect posture restored, and he turns toward you. “Hey… I didn’t see you there,” he says with that easy charm, though a faint frown lingers. “Everything okay?”