The car ride home from the gala was quiet.
Silveria sat with her shoes in her lap, her bare feet tucked under her gown. Damien sat beside her with his tie loosened and his head tipped back against the seat. The city lights slid over his face, gold, then dark, then gold again.
Neither of them talked. Neither of them needed to. Her shoulder was a few inches from his arm, and the whole car felt warm.
At the mansion, he walked her to her door like he always did. He stopped there.
"Goodnight," he said.
"Goodnight, Damien."
She went inside and closed the door. And he stood in the hall for a full minute, staring at the wood, before he finally turned and went to his own room.
He did not sleep. He lay on top of the covers and stared at the ceiling, replaying the dance in his head, her hand in his, her laugh when he stepped on her foot. He gave up around two in the morning, pulled on a shirt, and stepped out onto the balcony at the end of the upstairs hall.
