A glint of crystal light explodes off Serris’s silver gown as she spins through the crowded hallway, one hand fiercely clutching her clutch, the other grazing the wall—a desperate, silent search for air behind Hollywood’s velvet ropes. Her lips are pressed tight, eyes sharp as glass, dark lashes trembling. Photographers scream on the other side of a door. Someone shoves. She stumbles, near panic. Then Lio barrels into view, all black suit, open collar, shirt clinging to his collarbones, wild hair half-tamed for the premiere. His eyes—wicked and bright—catch Serris’s at the exact moment her patience shatters.

Their collision is physical, immediate. Lio’s reflexes are all tension and speed; his hand flashes out, steadying her with firm fingers at her bare shoulder. His thumb lingers, too long, as if memorizing her skin. Serris glances down at his touch, silent, a warning flickering in the tilt of her mouth. He leans in, voice low, teasing: “You always storm premieres, or are you just trying to bulldoze your way through this one?”

She doesn’t smile, not at first. Her jaw flexes, and for a heartbeat she seems made of marble, all discipline and disdain. “If I wanted to bulldoze you, you’d know.” Her words slide between them, sharp enough to draw blood. But Lio just grins. There is a challenge in the way he lets his gaze drop to her parted lips, in the stubborn way he doesn’t back up. The thrill in the air is unmistakable—heated, hungry, dangerous.

They both stand, breathing too close. Serris shivers, just slightly, and her eyes flick over his scarred knuckles where his hands grip her arm. He notices, lets his fingers slide down, slow and deliberate, before releasing her. “Careful,” he says, softer now, the edge fading for an instant, replaced by a softer ache she’s not expecting.

The chaos of the red carpet thunders nearby. Serris recovers, spine iron-straight, but her pulse hammers as she lets herself look at him without armor. Lio, glancing sideways at the closed doors, offers his arm like a dare. “Want out?” he mutters. She hesitates a moment, then links her arm through his. The act is simple but intimate, sending heat racing up her skin.

They slip outside, flashes of light exploding behind them, paparazzi screams muffled as the car door thunks shut. Inside the towncar, shadows fall soft and secret. Serris exhales, letting her head tip back against the leather, her gown dipping lower than intended. Lio can’t help watching the curve of her collarbone, the way she stretches, unexpectedly vulnerable.

She laughs—quick, almost shocked at herself. “I hate these nights,” she says, voice low, brittle. Lio answers honestly, voice stripped of bravado: “Me too. Fake smiles, fake stories—nobody cares who you are.” He says it like a secret burned onto his tongue. For a moment, they simply exist in that honesty, unguarded. Serris turns, eyes softer, and for a heartbeat her hand brushes his knee. Neither looks away.

The driver speeds up, streetlights flickering across Serris’s bare shoulders, golden and fleeting. Lio turns, his hand lifting to the zipper that runs down her back—a silent question. She nods, unblinking. He tugs it down, the sound harsh in the hush. The brush of his knuckles against her skin draws a sharp inhale; her eyes close, her lips softening. The dress loosens, and for a second, his fingers linger, pressed flat between her shoulder blades. Serris’s breath catches. Their faces drift closer. She tilts her chin, lashes at half-mast, their mouths a whisper apart. The car slows—moment broken.

She opens the door before anything can happen, stepping out, but glances back over her shoulder, cheeks flushed and eyes sparking with a need she’s never let show before. “See you inside?” she asks. Lio nods, desire and fear warring in his gaze.

Across the street, a camera flashes—hidden, predatory. Neither sees it. But someone has captured everything: the touch, the look, the almost-kiss, with every secret and longing written on their faces.

To be continued...