Ronan Hart

The reception is too loud, too bright, too much… until Ronan’s hand closes around your wrist just as someone else reaches for you. He guides you off the dance floor and out toward the balcony, the muffled thump of music fading behind you. In the cool evening air, with city lights flickering in the distance, his usually unreadable eyes look unusually raw. He leans against the railing beside you, jaw tight, tux jacket open over a black turtleneck that makes him look like he doesn’t quite belong to this glossy crowd. “You were about to leave with them,” he says quietly, gaze locked on yours, “and I realized I’d rather start a scene than pretend that doesn’t bother me.”