First Contact

Ashley did not slow down.

She didn’t ask again.

She simply moved.

“Come on,” she said, already pulling them forward.

“Ashely—” Asmaa tried.

“We don’t even know them,” Coretta added, though her voice lacked conviction.

The truth was: she wanted to go.

She just didn’t want to admit it.

The closer they got, the louder her pulse became—not from fear exactly, but from awareness. She could feel the shift from anonymity to intention. Walking toward someone was different than being watched from across the room.

This was choosing.

Behind them, she heard footsteps quicken.

Malik.

He wasn’t trying to overtake them. He wasn’t inserting himself. He simply followed—quiet, slightly behind, as if unsure whether he was invited but unwilling to be left out.

She registered that without turning fully.

He stayed at the edge of everything.

The blonde looked up first.

Up close, he was not flashy.

That surprised her.

No exaggerated smirk. No scanning glance that dipped and assessed. He simply looked at them—present, attentive.

Ashley didn’t hesitate.

“Chris,” she said, brushing a quick kiss against his cheek.

Coretta froze.

“Wait.”

“My brother,” Ashley added, grinning like she’d been waiting for the reveal.

Of course.

Of course he was.

Something inside Coretta tightened—then recalibrated.

Ashley stepped back deliberately.

“You all behave,” she said lightly. Then she added, more casually, “I’m going to find Mira before she disappears on me.”

She squeezed Cora’s arm once.

“Have fun.”

And she was gone.

Just like that.

Coretta stared after her.

“She does that,” he said.

“Abandons people mid-sentence?”

“Strategic retreat.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

God.

He was even more attractive when he wasn’t trying to be.

That annoyed her.

Up close she noticed details she hadn’t allowed herself to focus on before. The shirt—dark, fitted in a way that suggested structure without display. His shoulders filled it naturally. His posture wasn’t stiff, but it wasn’t loose either. Balanced. Controlled.

And then there was the scar.

It appeared when he shifted slightly, fabric pulling just enough at the collar to reveal a pale, jagged line near his collarbone.

Not accidental.

Not cosmetic.

Old.

Not the kind of scar you get from something careless.

The kind that costs something.

When he shifted again, the fabric of his sleeve pulled just enough to reveal dark ink along his upper arm—part of an emblem, sharp lines and an eagle’s wing disappearing beneath the cotton.

She didn’t recognize it.

But it didn’t look decorative.

It looked earned.

She looked away quickly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Asmaa had drifted half a step toward the man with the low bun.

Tom wasn’t filling silence. He was leaving space for her words to land. He nodded when she spoke, didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush to perform. Asmaa’s hands moved carefully at first, then less so. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. She wasn’t shrinking.

Coretta registered that instinctively.

He wasn’t overpowering her.

He was steadying her.

They were speaking quietly.

He leaned in slightly—not crowding, just to be heard over the music.

Asmaa’s posture was tentative but open.

Coretta leaned closer to Chris.

“Your friend?” she nodded subtly toward the dark-haired guy.

Chris glanced back briefly.

“Tom,” he said. “He’s decent.”

Decent.

Simple word.

It eased something in her.

Asmaa laughed softly at something Tom said, then looked down quickly, as if surprised by her own reaction.

Malik hovered near them now, hands half in his pockets, listening more than speaking.

Everyone seemed to be finding a position.

“You handled that guy earlier,” Chris said.

Her stomach flipped.

“You saw?”

“Hard not to.”

“You didn’t intervene.”

She hadn’t meant it as an accusation.

It came out like one anyway.

He didn’t react defensively.

“You didn’t need me to.”

The simplicity of it unsettled her.

He wasn’t claiming strength.

He wasn’t proving anything.

He was stating a fact.

“You could have stepped in,” she pressed.

“I could have,” he said calmly. “But that wouldn’t have been respectful.”

Respectful.

The word landed deeper than she expected.

Her whole life she had been told two things about men like him.

Either they ignored.

Or they controlled.

Detached.

Dominant.

He had done neither.

He had watched.

And trusted her.

She felt something shift—small, but real.

“So you just observe?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “You learn more that way.”

He wasn’t flirting aggressively.

He wasn’t trying to win her.

He was… steady.

Conversation unfolded naturally after that.

He asked what she was studying—and listened. Actually listened. He followed her explanation. Challenged a point—not to undermine her, but to understand it better.

She noticed herself leaning in.

Laughing.

Forgetting to monitor the way her voice sounded.

Forgetting to brace.

She had grown up hyper-aware of how she was perceived. Strong but not angry. Confident but not threatening. Intelligent but not intimidating. Attractive but not inviting stereotype.

She had carried that balance like armor.

With him, she forgot to hold it up.

At one point the music swelled and he leaned slightly closer so she could hear him. Not invading. Not claiming. Just close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her side.

He held her gaze half a second longer than necessary.

It wasn’t dominance.

It was certainty.

And that certainty unsettled her more than arrogance ever could.

That scared her.

He brushed a hand through his hair absentmindedly.

Her eyes flicked—again—to the scar.

“That from sports?” she asked lightly.

“Something like that.”

It wasn’t.

She knew it wasn’t.

There was something about the way he stood—like someone who had trained his body to respond before his mind caught up.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-two.”

“Sophomore? Or junior?” she asked, doing the math in her head.

He almost smiled.

“Freshman.”

She frowned faintly.

“That math doesn’t line up.”

“It does,” he replied. “Just not the traditional way.”

There was no self-pity in his voice.

No dramatic pause.

Just information.

Her gaze drifted to the scar again.

Not sports.

Something else.

Ambition flickered beneath the calm. Not ego. Direction.

And suddenly she understood something about herself that unsettled her even more.

She liked that he seemed ahead of her.

Not superior.

Just… ahead.

She had spent years being told she needed to lead, to challenge, to resist.

What if she didn’t always want to?

What if she was tired of fighting every room she entered?

What if, just once, she wanted someone else to decide where they were going?

The thought was quiet.

Dangerous.

And then the air behind her shifted.

Not subtle this time.

Her body reacted before her mind did.

No.

No no no.

Not now.

Please not now.

She had just started to relax.

She had just stopped calculating.

She had just felt light.

Her shoulders went rigid.

Her stomach dropped hard enough that she almost felt dizzy. The music dulled, like cotton had been shoved into her ears. Her fingers went cold.

He always did this.

Appearing.

Claiming space.

Ruining air.

Chris noticed instantly.

His expression didn’t change.

But his posture sharpened.

Ready.

She turned slowly.

And there he was.

Her ex.

Three guys flanking him like punctuation marks.

Not smiling.

Watching.

Her chest tightened painfully.

He always did this.

Appearing.

Claiming space.

Ruining air.

Her mind raced.

He’ll make a scene.

He’ll escalate.

He’ll try to prove something.

And for the first time, the fear wasn’t for herself.

It was for Chris.

She glanced at him quickly.

The scar.

The age gap.

The steadiness.

He didn’t deserve to get dragged into her past.

“Friend of yours?” Chris asked quietly.

The calm in his voice almost broke her.

“No,” she said.

But her heart was pounding now.

Please don’t let him ruin this.

Please don’t let something happen.

The music thudded around them, but it felt distant.

The night had shifted.

And she could feel it tilting toward something dangerous.