#slow dancing

You glanced at the massive digital clock mounted near the stage. Then back at him.

"...I am seven minutes early."

"You are three minutes late."

"The gala doesn't start for another seven minutes."

Vox didn't even hesitate. "Which means you should've been here ten minutes ago."

The executive who had been pitching stopped entirely, his mouth half-open. The second looked between you and Vox, visibly confused. The third simply looked like he regretted spawning in Hell altogether.

You kept walking, the heels of your shoes clicking sharply against the marble. "So we're just making things up now? Is that a new Vees policy?"

"It isn't my fault you refuse to arrive on time." Vox sounded genuinely offended.

"I literally arrived early."

"Three. Minutes. Late."

The fact that he seemed completely serious somehow made it worse. You pinched the bridge of your nose. "That is a completely unhinged interpretation of time."

Vox looked away from you just long enough to acknowledge the increasingly uncomfortable businessmen surrounding him. "One moment," he told them, his tone clipped and dismissive.

Then he abandoned them. Completely.

The three executives watched the head of VoxTek walk away as if they’d just seen a glitch in the matrix. You watched them watch him, raising an eyebrow.

"That's rude," you spoke quietly as Vox closed the distance between you.

"They'll survive. Their stocks won't, but they will."

"...you just walked away from a business pitch?"

"I came over here," he corrected you smoothly, as if those were two entirely different concepts.

By the time Vox actually reached you, the absurd argument had settled into a comfortable rhythm.

That should have concerned you more than it did.

Two years ago, when the arrangement was first drafted, it was supposed to be a straightforward public relations campaign: appear together at high-profile events, smile for the paparazzi, and occasionally allow the Hell-born media to lose its collective mind over a prospective power couple.

The first few months had been easy to explain.

Your team wanted stability after the press disaster surrounding your last film. Vox wanted a cleaner public image after whatever mess Valentino had dragged into the entertainment cycle that quarter. Someone in a conference room had suggested a mutually beneficial relationship. At the time, the idea had been ridiculous enough to make you laugh.

Vox hadn't laughed.

He'd leaned back in his chair, screen glowing with a calculated sort of amusement.

"Actually," he'd muttered, "that could work."

Two years later, it was still working. At some point, the lines had blurred enough that Vox tracking your arrival time no longer felt unusual.

Annoying, yes.

Unusual, no.

His digital gaze suddenly dropped straight to your clutch. You mentally cursed. You hated it when he stared like that.

"What?" you asked, keeping your voice level.

"What are you hiding in there?"

Your grip tightened instinctively around the leather strap. The movement lasted less than a fraction of a second. Unfortunately, Vox noticed anyway. His grin widened.

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"The guilt," Vox gloated, stepping closer. A sharp, static-laced grin spread across his face. "You have that specific look you get when you’ve done something sentimental."

"I don't look guilty."

"You brought me something, didn’t you?"

You glared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away. The worst part wasn't that he'd guessed. The worst part was that the bastard had guessed correctly.

Four months. You had spent four miserable months scouring the shadiest black markets in the Pride Ring for a pristine, heavy-duty 1950s television studio lens.

Vox absolutely loathed the radio era—he made that aggressively clear to anyone who asked—but he was a helpless, obsessive nerd for the golden age of broadcast tech. What most people didn't realize was that he could talk about early television equipment for an alarming amount of time if given even the slightest encouragement.

The lens had come up during one of those conversations.

A late-night conversation neither of you should have remembered had somehow devolved into a rant about modern broadcasting. You couldn't remember exactly how he'd gotten there, only that he'd spent several minutes complaining about digital compression before getting distracted by historic studio cameras and the glass used in their lenses.

Apparently, that had been enough.

Because four months later, the lens was sitting in your bag, heavy and hidden, and you still weren't entirely sure why you'd gone to the trouble of tracking it down.

"You don't know that," you shot back.

"I do."

"You don't."

"You only use that specific designer purse when you're concealing a box of that exact dimension. I map your wardrobe, darling. Pattern recognition."

For a long moment, you simply looked at him. Then you looked down at the purse, then back up into his glowing blue screen. "You’re insane.”

"Thank you."

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

"I’m in entertainment, sweetheart. I take what I can get."

From across the room, a dramatic, theatrical groan echoed.

You turned your head to see Valentino draped over the VIP bar, nursing a drink that looked like neon highlighters and sins. Naturally, Velvette was standing right beside him, tapping away furiously on her phone. Both of them had clearly been listening.

"Oh, look, they're doing the bickering-old-married-couple routine already," Val drawled, rolling his pink-tinted eyes so hard you could practically hear it. “Will you two either fuck or get married already?”

"We've been in the same room for thirty seconds, Val," you called back.

"And somehow, I’m exhausted," the pimp sighed, taking a slow sip through his straw.

Vox scoffed, leaning his hip against the bar right next to you. “Ignore him. He's just mad because my numbers keep going up and his keep doing the opposite."

Velvette lowered her phone, glancing between the two of you with a sharp smirk. The expression on her face suggested she was enjoying this far too much.

"Wanna know what the funniest part of this whole circus is?" she asked.

Nobody answered. That had never stopped her before.

"You've been together for two years."

Your stomach did a sudden, unpleasant flip. You knew exactly where Velvette’s train of thought usually ended up. "And?" you prompted defensively.

"And you still look for each other." Velvette motioned vaguely between the pair of you.

A heavy silence fell over the ballroom. You frowned, crossing your arms. "What does that even mean?"

"It means exactly what I said, babe.”

"What does that even mean?"

"Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit the brand."

"I'm not."

"Then we're both in trouble.” Velvette rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't pop out of her head. She shoved her phone into her pocket and pointed a finger toward the opposite, bustling side of the ballroom. "Fine. Visual demonstration. Vox, do me a favor. Turn around and walk over there. Go check the stage lighting or whatever. Just look away from her."

Vox grumbled, but he actually complied, turning his back.

"Now," Velvette purred, looking directly at you. "Look away from him. Pick a spot on the opposite side of the room. Anywhere else."

You followed the gesture automatically and forced your gaze toward the main entrance, where another group of guests had begun filtering inside. Event staff moved around them carrying clipboards and tablets. Nothing seemed particularly noteworthy.

You counted to three in your head, determined to prove her wrong.

Then your attention landed on Vox.

At the exact same moment, his landed on you.

The realization arrived unpleasantly fast. Not because you'd looked at him, that part wasn't strange.

The strange part was how easy it had been. A crowded ballroom filled with hundreds of people, and somehow your eyes had gone straight to him.

You snapped your head away, cleared your throat, and pretended to be immensely interested in a nearby tray of appetizers.

Still, Velvette had seen enough.

"So embarrassing," she cackled, leaning against the bar. "Honestly, look at you both. Disgusting."

"You are unbearable," you muttered, feeling an unwelcome warmth rise to your cheeks.

"No, I'm right."

"You're impossible."

"I can be both, love. It's called multitasking." Velvette took another sip of her drink, her eyes gleaming with absolute satisfaction. "You know what annoys me?"

You barely looked up from the champagne that had somehow found its way into your grasp. "The list is long."

Velvette snickered. Across the room, Vox had migrated from terrorizing executives to arguing with a member of the event team about lighting. The poor employee looked seconds away from a breakdown.

Velvette ignored the exchange entirely.

"Every anniversary article about you two says the same thing."

You hummed absentmindedly.

"'Still going strong after two years.' 'Hell's favorite power couple.' 'Relationship goals.'" She wrinkled her nose. "Makes me sick."

"That's sweet."

"It wasn't meant to be."

"I know."

Velvette rolled her eyes. Then she lifted a hand, signaling your attention toward Vox.

"Seriously, though, you know what really annoys me?"

"What?" You immediately regretted asking.

"The fact that you're impossible to buy gifts for."

The statement caught you off guard.

"...what does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. It reminded me."

You already didn't like where this was going.

"Last year, I spent three weeks trying to figure out what to get you for your birthday. I asked Valentino. I asked your manager. I asked three assistants. Nobody knew."

You winced. “Okay?”

"Then I asked Vox."

Something in your chest constricted. Velvette continued before you could say anything.

"He knew without hesitation."

You looked up.

"No thinking. Just—"

She snapped her fingers.

"'Get her this. She'll like it.'" Another snap. "'She already owns that.'" A third. "'Don't get that one. She hated the ending.'"

The impression was woefully accurate.

"'Get the blue version. Not the red one.'" Velvette narrowed her eyes. "Which was weird."

You hoped your face looked normal.

"Because I'd known you for years." The smile blossomed slowly across her face. "And then I realized something."

You already knew you wouldn't enjoy the conclusion.

Velvette pointed toward Vox. "That bastard pays way too much attention."

As if he'd felt himself being discussed, Vox looked up from across the ballroom.

His gaze landed on the two of you instantly. "Why are you pointing at me?" It sounded much more like an accusation than a question.

Velvette didn't miss a beat. "I'm insulting you."

"Get in line." Vox snapped back before turning around and returning to his previous task. Velvette waited until he was out of sight before turning to you, her voice low.

"You know," she started, "when Vox asked you out, I gave it three months tops. I thought you two wouldn’t last a season without killing each other."

"Oh, good. Glad to know we had your vote of confidence."

Velvette looked between you and Vox before shrugging. "But now?"

You already hated where this was going.

"Now I think you're probably stuck with each other for eternity. Have fun with that."

For once, in a room full of Hell's loudest personalities, nobody had a single thing left to say.

The camera lens caught the glare of the overhead neon, reflecting a tiny, distorted version of your own practiced smile right back at you.

It was a suffocatingly familiar view.

The gala had officially opened nearly an hour ago and had already descended into chaos. Guests crowded the ballroom in clusters, moving from conversation to conversation with champagne glasses in hand, while somewhere behind you, Valentino’s voice boomed over the crowd, aggressively explaining to a cowering decorator why he should've been allowed to personally redesign the event banners.

Judging by the progressively frantic hand gestures, the conversation had entered its third act.

The distraction only lasted a moment.

"Two years is an absolute eternity in the Pride Ring.”

The reporter's voice dragged your attention back to the conversation.

Twenty-three minutes ago, this interview had been scheduled for ten. The red recording light on the camera was still burning a hole through the space between you, and you were beginning to suspect the woman had absolutely no intention of leaving.

To be fair, neither did Vox.

"Is it?" he asked, his voice mellow, completely undisturbed by the bright studio lights reflecting off his screen.

The reporter laughed. "Most celebrity relationships don't make it six months."

"Most celebrity relationships involve celebrities."

"You are a celebrity, Mr. Vox."

"Tragic, isn't it?"

The reporter laughed again, scribbling frantically on her digital tablet. You took a slow, calculated sip of your champagne, watching Vox look thoroughly pleased with himself. He loved a camera, and the camera loved him back. It was an infuriatingly flawless combination.

The interview continued.

Questions about your latest film seamlessly transitioned into questions about VoxTek’s upcoming quarterly rollout. Then, questions about VoxTek somehow became questions about your domestic life. You weren't entirely sure how she’d managed the pivot, though, judging by the predatory glint in the reporter's eyes, it had probably been her objective from the moment she bypassed security.

"So, what do you think the secret is?" she asked, looking between the two of you.

"The secret to what?" you inquired.

"Making it work. Two years at the top of the food chain, completely unified. What's the trick?"

You nearly answered automatically.

There were strict, pre-approved responses for questions like this. Generic, harmless answers designed by a small army of Vees publicists who got nervous whenever either of you spoke without supervision. Mutual respect. Open communication. Shared corporate values. Something aggressively boring.

Vox beat you to the punch.

"We understand each other."

The answer came so easily that it took a second to register.

Across from you, the reporter visibly brightened, sensing blood in the water. You side-eyed Vox. He didn't look back; he just kept his digital eyes locked on the interviewer, his posture perfectly relaxed.

Apparently, as far as he was concerned, nothing unusual had just happened.

"...right," the reporter murmured, her stylus flying across her tablet. "And where do you see yourselves in ten years?"

Once again, you had a safe, PR-friendly answer prepared. A joke about still running Hell's media scene.

Once again, Vox didn't give you the chance.

"Together."

His answer landed with considerably less fanfare than it probably should have.

The reporter smiled, utterly delighted. You forced your muscles to mimic the expression. Vox, meanwhile, continued existing as though he hadn't just said something remotely concerning.

You weren’t sure whose reaction concerned you more.

The interview carried on, but unfortunately, so did your thoughts.

Together.

It was probably nothing. A quick PR answer to keep the narrative clean. An easy, normal answer designed to sell magazines. Except it wasn't really. Not when you and Vox had an expiration date.

The contract was set to expire next month, in exactly twenty-seven days. The number surfaced occasionally during meetings and renewal discussions, but otherwise, you didn't think much about it.

"...and finally," the reporter continued, glancing down at her lingering notes with a sharp, media-trained grin. "One last question for the fans."

You already hated it. The swift shift in her posture only confirmed your worst suspicions.

"Do you see yourselves together... forever?"

"What would be the point of any of this otherwise?"

The answer arrived so quickly that it took a second to register.

A grin spread across the reporter's face. "Well, I think that's our headline right there."

Vox nodded once. "Probably."

The crew thanked you both before disappearing back into the crowd, already discussing whatever catastrophic article they were about to publish. You watched them go for a moment before slowly turning toward Vox.

He was already looking at you.

“What?”

Vox stared right back.

The fact that he didn't seem remotely concerned by what he'd just said was somehow the most concerning part.

You looked away first, staring down into the bubbles of your champagne.

Avoiding his eyes only made the question feel a million times worse.

The timeline of the evening grew hazy somewhere around the fourth drink.

Not immediately, of course.

The alcohol had spent most of the evening lurking harmlessly in the background while you navigated interviews, photos, and approximately six hundred conversations that all circled back to the same three topics: your career, VoxTek, and whether you and Vox planned on producing heirs to Hell's media empire.

By drink number four, however, the pleasant warmth finally caught up with you.

You weren't sloppy yet, but the alcohol had successfully dulled the room. Suddenly, the contract, the cameras, and your looming deadlines felt entirely irrelevant.

Which was exactly how you found yourself laughing at a story that wasn't even remotely funny while a minor entertainment executive spun you across the ballroom floor.

"...and then the idiot tried to sue himself for copyright infringement," the executive shouted over the music, gesturing wildly.

You let out a genuine laugh, the champagne softening the neon lights up above. "That's not even legally possible, even for Hell."

"Exactly!” He pointed triumphantly. “That's what the judge told him right before throwing him out of the courthouse!"

As the music intensified, the dance floor blurred into a glittering sea of expensive fabric and shifting bodies beneath the lights. For the first time all evening, you weren't thinking about interviews. You weren't thinking about contracts.

Most importantly, you weren't thinking about Vox.

The luxury of that ignorance lasted approximately thirty seconds.

Then the music changed.

At first, the transition was smooth enough to pass as a standard DJ choice. The upbeat electronic swing that had dominated the dance floor all night slowly dissolved, its synthesizers fading beneath a sound that was heavier. Older.

Much older.

Strings replaced the pounding bass. Brass followed a second later, warm and unmistakably old-fashioned. Confused whispers rippled through the ballroom as dancers stumbled over the sudden change in rhythm.

You froze mid-step. You knew this song.

It dragged up memories not from Hell, or some trendy penthouse lounge, but from before. From the era of red carpets and studio lots, from historic theaters with heavy velvet curtains and spotlights hot enough to melt your makeup. It was a fragment of a world that hadn't existed for either of you in over half a century.

For a brief, disorienting moment, you were twenty-one again.

Then a familiar hand settled firmly against your waist.

You didn't even need to turn around.

The minor executive currently holding your other hand stiffened, his eyes widening as he looked over your shoulder.

Vox didn't acknowledge him. He didn't look at him, didn't smile, didn't even grant the man a glance from his display.

“Move.”

The poor man vanished into the crowd so fast he might as well have teleported.

You watched his desperate retreat before turning your attention back to the Overlord in front of you.

“...did you just literally steal me from a dance partner?"

"No."

"You absolutely did."

Vox ignored the accusation entirely. "Dance."

You blinked. "Dance?"

"Dance,” he repeated.

A breathless laugh escaped you. The alcohol was definitely playing a part in your lack of cooperation. "That is generally not how invitations work, Vox."

"You seem to understand the prompt well enough," he mused.

Before you could formulate a proper snarky response, Vox was already guiding you into position. His palm flattened against the middle of your back while his other found yours with a natural ease that should have terrified you.

Instead, your attention was drawn to something far worse.

Neither of you missed a single beat. The movement came automatically. One turn. Another. The distance between you adjusted without either of you having to think about it.

It had probably been seventy years since you'd danced to music like this.

That didn't seem to matter.

“You changed the song," you uttered, keeping your eyes trained on his screen.

Vox looked entirely innocent. "That's a serious accusation."

"You absolutely did."

"I own the building," he reminded you, executing a fluid spin that caught the hem of your attire perfectly.

"That isn't a denial."

"It wasn't supposed to be."

A few onlookers had started watching, their knowing smiles and whispered comments drifting through the crowd every time you turned.

"...still together after two years."

“They’re adorable.”

"God, look at them."

You instantly regretted hearing any of that, but Vox either didn't notice or didn't care. Neither possibility was particularly reassuring. As another turn carried you both through the center of the ballroom, you narrowed your eyes.

"...were you jealous?"

Vox nearly missed a step. The slip lasted less than a second, but you caught it anyway.

"What?"

"Were you jealous?"

"I was not jealous," he snapped. The answer had arrived far too quickly, along with the defensive edge in his voice. For someone who wasn't jealous, he suddenly seemed remarkably interested in proving it.

You laughed. "Vox."

"I'm serious."

The fourth drink had done wonders for your self-preservation. Normally, you would've dropped the subject by now. Tonight, however, you found yourself studying the dim static flickering along the edges of his screen with growing suspicion.

The evidence was not helping his case.

"You stole me off the dance floor," you noted, tilting your head up to catch his eye.

His hold tightened just a fraction against your waist. “I rescued you.”

"Rescued me? From what?"

"The conversation. It was painful."

The pieces clicked into place slowly enough to make his denial even more ridiculous. This wasn't about the music, or someone stepping on your feet, or whatever other excuse he’d come up with thirty seconds ago.

"You didn't like him," you deduced.

"I barely know him."

"You disliked him remarkably fast for someone you barely know."

Vox made a dismissive noise, turning his display slightly away. You watched him for another moment before your gaze wandered toward the crowd, though the executive in question had long since disappeared.

"He seemed nice."

"He owns a yacht."

You blinked. "What?"

"He owns a yacht," Vox repeated flatly.

"I heard you. I just…don't see how that's relevant."

"Then why are we still discussing whether he seemed nice?"

A startled laugh escaped you. Vox looked thoroughly victorious, leaving you with absolutely no real answers.

"There you are."

A familiar voice cut through the music before you could carry on the interrogation. Weaving through the crowd was a network producer—one of the few souls in the Pride Ring you actually tolerated—looking mildly exasperated as he swirled a drink in his hand. "I've been trying to find you for twenty minutes."

"That's because I've been actively avoiding networking," you replied, your posture relaxing as you turned toward him.

"It shows." The producer shrugged, entirely ignoring the sharp, dismissive scoff Vox made at the very concept of skipping a branding opportunity. "Come save me. Someone from the Greed Ring has spent the last half hour explaining cryptocurrency."

Your expression morphed into genuine horror. "Oh, that's tragic."

"Thank you." The man beckoned toward the exit. "I need an escape hatch."

You didn't hesitate to step away. "Goodbye, Vox."

As you moved to leave, Vox's arm stretched instinctively, his hand remaining at your waist long enough to pull you back a step.

"You're leaving?"

You stopped.

The producer's eyebrows rose. Yours probably did too.

Beside you, Vox seemed to realize he'd spoken without his usual corporate filter approximately half a second too late.

"I'm borrowing her," the producer declared, breaking the sudden tension by gently taking your wrist.

"Temporarily," Vox amended, his voice sinking into its smooth broadcast tone.

The producer stared. You stared. Vox simply stared right back, his display flattening into a mask of sheer confidence as he finally let his hand fall from your waist. He gave a casual, dismissive wave of his fingers. "Go."

The completely unnecessary permission almost made you laugh. "Thank you for allowing me to speak to other people, Mr. Vox."

"I am extraordinarily generous," he shot back, his screen flashing a smug grin.

"That's one word for it."

Before Vox could formulate a proper retort, the producer pulled you along. "Come on, before he rehires me just to fire me."

As you let yourself be dragged away, you caught sight of Velvette leaning against the VIP bar. She had witnessed the entire exchange, a genuinely alarming smirk plastered across her face.

You pointed a warning finger at her over the producer's shoulder. "No."

Velvette pointed right back, mouthing the words over her glass: "Oh, absolutely."

Whatever threat she intended to make was lost beneath the swelling bass of the speakers, which was probably for the best.

By the time another hour slipped by, you'd completely lost track of how much champagne you'd consumed. It wasn't enough to embarrass yourself…probably, but it was definitely enough to make everything feel fuzzy.

The producer eventually disappeared into another conversation. Other people replaced him. Some you recognized. Most you didn't.

At some point, Valentino materialized beside you and shoved a pair of glowing, radioactive-looking cocktails into your space.

That was where the evening truly began to deteriorate.

"What is that?" you asked, squinting suspiciously at the neon liquid.

"Alcohol," Val drawled, waving a feathered hand dismissively.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting, babe." He nudged the rim against your knuckles.

Against your better judgment, you accepted one. Valentino kept the other.

The rest of the night became significantly warmer after that. Exactly how much time passed afterward was difficult to say.

At some point, a photographer convinced you to pose for solo shots. At another, Velvette vanished and reappeared wearing an entirely different outfit. There was a vague memory of discussing film budgets with a minor Overlord, and a much stronger, more vivid memory of losing a verbal argument with a decorative fountain.

What you did know for certain was that you eventually ended up in one of the VIP booths overlooking the ballroom.

Unfortunately, Valentino was there too.

The two of you had initially collapsed into opposite ends of the same velvet booth, but somehow ended up shoulder-to-shoulder over the course of the evening.

"You're very soft," Valentino informed you, his voice dripping with hazy affection.

"You have, like…eight arms."

Valentino squinted down at his drink, somehow missing his own mouth by several inches. A concerning amount of neon alcohol disappeared directly into his lap.

He didn't seem to notice.

"I feel like we're having two different conversations."

Val lifted a feathered hand to pet the top of your head before taking another long sip from his drink. Below, the ballroom spun beneath the lights. Music drifted up from the dance floor as the crowd blurred into a glittering mass of motion. For a while, neither of you said much, simply watching the room move.

Then, Valentino suddenly sat up straighter. "You ever think about how weird Vox is?"

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink. "Constantly."

"Good." He seemed genuinely relieved, slouching further into the cushions. "I thought it was just me."

"It is definitely not just you."

"Thank god."

From there, the conversation wandered completely off course.

Valentino had draped himself across the back of the booth. You'd become vaguely aware that several of his arms had ended up wrapped around you. The realization seemed important, but you were too busy trying to convince him that the centerpieces had been getting brighter all night to care.

Neither of you noticed the approaching shadow.

"...What exactly am I looking at?"

The interruption was familiar enough that recognition arrived before you even looked.

Vox.

"There you are," you mumbled happily.

Vox's gaze swept across the booth, taking in the graveyard of empty glasses, Valentino, the alarming number of arms currently attached to Valentino, and lastly, you. The grin on his screen flattened into a hard line.

Before anyone could speak, Vox sat down beside you and promptly pulled you against him by the waist. You let out a yelp as your shoulder collided firmly with his chest.

"There," Vox said, looking deeply satisfied.

Too tired to argue, you slumped against him. It was significantly easier than sitting upright, though your compliance clearly validated whatever point he thought he was making.

Valentino looked between the two of you. "Damn. The yacht guy really got under your skin, huh?"

Vox’s screen spiked with a sudden, violent jolt of static. "I could buy his entire lineage, his harbor, and his pathetic little boat," he hissed, his grip tightening on your waist as his display flashed an angry red warning before he caught himself. Vox let out a sharp breath, forcing his screen back to its normal blue hue as he looked down at you.

He was already inspecting the collection of glasses, desperately trying to redirect his irritation. "How much have you had to drink?"

You considered the question. "A normal amount."

"Define normal."

"...no."

Vox pinched the bridge of his nose. Without warning, he reached over and pried the glass from your hand.

"...Rude."

"You did try to tip a photographer with somebody else's business card." Valentino cut in.

You paused, processing the memory. "Wait…I did do that." Your head dropped back against Vox’s shoulder as you let out a small, defeated hum. "I wondered where that card went."

Instead of indulging your embrace, Vox stood up, causing your head to slump against the back of the booth. You frowned at the sudden loss of a pillow. "Where are you going?"

"I'm taking you home."

Valentino made a choking sound, nearly spilling what was left of his drink. "Oh, would you look at that? Daddy's done sharing."

Vox's screen glitched violently. "Do NOT call me that."

You braced your hands to stand, but the moment you pushed off the cushions, the room tilted violently. Before you could fall, an arm slid behind your knees while another scooped across your back. The floor vanished.

You stared at Vox, dangling mid-air. He stared right back, entirely unbothered.

"...Seriously?"

"You are not walking."

Before you could argue, Vox turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

The movement shifted you closer against his chest. Familiar scents followed: cigarette smoke woven into the fabric of his suit, expensive cologne, and the faint electric tang that always seemed to linger around him. It was annoyingly recognizable.

Behind you, Valentino's cackling laughter echoed over the music.

"You know," the pimp shouted after you, "most people just hold hands!"

Vox didn't even break stride.

"Goodnight, Valentino."

"Oh, he's MAD."

Waking up felt like being hit by a truck. A very expensive truck. One upholstered entirely in velvet and poor decisions.

You groaned and rolled onto your side, immediately regretting the movement as a dull ache throbbed behind your eyes. The room was dark enough that it took a second for your vision to adjust.

The first thing you recognized was the ceiling.

The second was the fact that it wasn't yours.

Moving more carefully this time, you pushed yourself upright as your gaze drifted across the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Pentagram City several stories below, and a massive desk sat near the far wall, cluttered with monitors, paperwork, and enough expensive equipment to bankrupt several small businesses.

Vox's room.

"...shit."

"You seem surprised."

The voice came from your left. You turned to find Vox sitting on the opposite end of the couch, your purse resting between his hands. Every remaining trace of sleep vanished.

"What are you doing?" you demanded, the words coming out embarrassingly high-pitched.

Vox didn't look up from the bag. "I was attempting to locate your room key.”

"You were going through my purse."

"I was attempting to locate your room key."

"That's the exact same thing."

"I disagree."

Before he could double down, the partially unzipped purse slipped sideways. A small box tumbled free, landing right on the cushion between you.

Your stomach dropped so fast it nearly sobered you up on the spot.

For a second, both of you just stared. The box sat between you on the cushion, small, obvious, and absolutely incriminating.

"Don't,” you warned.

"I haven't done anything."

"You are thinking about doing something."

"I think about a lot of things," he murmured, his fingers twitching with temptation.

"Vox."

Unfortunately, your warning came too late. His hand closed around the box before you could grab it back, lifting it with a careful precision that made you want to hit him. He didn't open it immediately; he turned it over once, his "pattern-recognition" brain already cataloging the weight and the wrapping.

You sank back against the cushions and pressed both hands over your face.

"...I hate you."

"No, you don't," Vox said, shifting closer with a quiet rustle of his suit jacket.

"That's a very confident thing to say to someone whose purse you're currently violating."

He made a faintly dismissive noise, but the sound died the moment he lifted the lid.

The room went entirely still. You lowered your hands just enough to peek at him.

Vox had stopped moving. The lens sat against the dark lining of the box, catching the faint red neon bleeding in from the city window. Vox stared at it. Very carefully, he brushed his thumb along the heavy, vintage metal rim. For something that had caused you four months of stress, questionable transactions, and at least one conversation with a collector who definitely trafficked in more than antiques, it looked almost offensively innocent.

"You…found one." His voice was much quieter than you expected.

You tried to shrug, though, lying half-curled on his couch in a rumpled gown, the gesture was awkward. "It took a while."

"These don't even exist anymore."

"Clearly, at least one does."

He didn't laugh. That was the part that made you nervous. Vox always found a way to laugh when he was cornered, especially if it meant steering a conversation away from his actual feelings. This time, all his usual deflection seemed to short out before it reached his mouth.

"You remembered."

The words sat heavily between you. Not quite a question, not quite an accusation.

Your fingers curled into the couch's fabric. "It was pretty hard to forget, with the way you talked about it.”

Vox finally looked up, and whatever expression had been on his screen softened before he could fully hide it. That was new. Or maybe you were just drunk enough to notice.

You looked away first, shifting uncomfortably. "Don't make it weird.”

"Thank you."

"That's making it weird."

"No," he said, closing the box with careful hands before setting it on the table. "This is making it weird."

You glanced back just in time to watch him reach into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“...what are you doing?"

"Returning the favor." Vox pulled out a small, flat case, no larger than his palm.

You stared at it, then at him. "You had that on you this whole time?"

"It's our anniversary."

"It's a fake anniversary."

Vox paused. It was barely a frame, a tiny hiccup in his refresh rate, but you caught it. "It's still an anniversary."

Your throat felt tight as you took the case.

Inside was a single strip of film, preserved carefully beneath glass. You recognized it immediately. It wasn't a famous movie—the studio had burned down before it ever hit theaters, and it had been entirely forgotten by history. But there you were, caught in one surviving frame from a film that technically no longer existed.

All you could do was stare. Vox, for once, didn't interrupt.

"...this is impossible," you finally mumbled quietly.

"No."

Your laugh came out thin. "Of course."

"The full print is being restored," Vox said, suddenly very interested in adjusting one of his cuffs. "Temperature-controlled storage. Digital copy once it's complete. The original stays sealed, obviously. Handling old nitrate film improperly is a disaster."

You stared at him until he looked back. "What?"

"You found my movie."

"I found part of your movie."

"Vox.”

"What?”

"You found my movie."

The correction caught him off guard. His smugness slipped, recovering less cleanly than usual as his gaze flickered down to the lens on the table.

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, the alcohol suddenly feeling heavy. "Why were you saying all that stuff tonight?"

"What stuff?"

"You know what stuff."

"You'll have to be more specific."

"To the reporter." You met his digital gaze head-on. "Together. Forever. What would be the point otherwise?"

He didn't look away. "The reporter asked."

"And you answered like it was obvious."

"It was."

You let out a disbelieving laugh. "The contract expires next month. In twenty-seven days."

"I know."

"Then why were you talking like that?"

Vox didn't answer immediately this time. He leaned back instead, studying you with an expression that lacked any of his usual theatricality.

"I assumed we'd renew it."

You blinked. "...You assumed?"

"Yes."

"Without asking me?"

"It seemed implied."

You stared at him. He stared back with the deeply irritating confidence of someone who had apparently spent months living in a completely different version of reality.

"Vox. This was supposed to be temporary."

"Two years ago, yes."

The words hit with a heavy finality. Your grip tightened around the edges of the film case.

"You really weren't planning on ending it," you stated.

This time, Vox looked genuinely confused. "Were you?"

The question was too simple, cutting straight through the lingering haze of the champagne. You looked down at the tiny, preserved frame of your past in your hands, then across at the pristine 1950s broadcast lens on the table. You didn't have an answer. Trying to imagine walking away—separating your routines, dealing with the press, returning to an empty penthouse without the constant, buzzing baseline of his presence—didn't even feel like an option anymore.

"You could have said something," you murmured.

Vox looked offended, his screen flashing a brief spike of static. "You never asked."

A breathy, helpless laugh escaped you. The rigid tension in your shoulders finally gave way, leaving something much more raw in its place. "You're unbelievable."

"Frequently."

The answer came too quickly, too naturally, and it closed the remaining distance between you. You leaned forward before your brain could talk you out of it.

Vox went completely still. The uncertainty that flickered across his display lasted less than a second, but you knew his cues too well to miss it.

"Are you going to stop me?" you whispered.

His voice dropped, a low, low hum that vibrated against your chest. "Do you want me to?"

"No."

That was all the permission either of you needed.

The kiss was softer than it had any right to be. For once, there were no cameras waiting to turn it into a headline and no crowded ballroom full of people watching through champagne glasses. Just Vox's hand against the side of your face, the faint smell of smoke and expensive cologne, and the quiet realization that neither of you had been acting for a very long time.

When you pulled back, he didn't let you go far. His screen glowed dimly in the dark room, casting a soft blue light over the film case still held between your fingers.

"That was very unprofessional," he teased.

You managed a small, tired smile. "The contract expires in twenty-seven days."

"Good."

You blinked. "Good?"

Vox's thumb brushed your cheekbone once, deliberately. "We'll revise it."

A quiet laugh slipped out of you at the phrasing. "You're impossible."

"I know."

Then he pulled you back in, and this time, you let the argument die there.