The masquerade glittered with secrets.

The ballroom glowed with flickering candlelight, each chandelier swinging gently overhead like a spell suspended in gold. Masks shimmered across every face—venetian lace, delicate porcelain, feathers, silver filigree. Even the music felt enchanted, rising and falling like breath, thick with longing.

You had almost forgotten what it was like to feel magic that didn’t ache.

The room spun with laughter, gowns sweeping the floor, velvet gloves and murmured gossip. Somewhere, Enid was howling at punch that had definitely been spiked, and Wednesday loomed in a sharp black gown by the staircase, watching everything like a hawk beneath her skeletal mask.

You were looking for something—but you weren’t sure what.

Not until he touched your hand.

It was gentle. No words. Just a hand at your waist, another lifting yours into his. And before you could even speak—he guided you into a slow, effortless spin.

A dark cloak hid most of him. Hood up, mask silver and simple. But something in his touch, the weight of his gaze, the warmth radiating off him—

You knew.

He pulled you in just enough to keep your feet moving with his. Close enough for your heart to trip.

“You always did look too good in candlelight,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth. “I thought I might be dreaming again.”

Your breath caught.

He tilted his head just slightly, the shadows shifting just enough to show the familiar shape of his jaw, the faintest curl of a smile.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Would it be terribly inappropriate if I said sneaking into a masquerade ball just to dance with you might be the most fun I’ve had since escaping a psychiatric facility?”

He twirled you again—careful, smooth—and caught your waist as you came back to him.

The violins swelled.

And Tyler Galpin, hooded fugitive, grinned like a boy who never got to go to his prom.