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Kieren

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The gala is all crystal light, champagne, and camera flashes. Fashion-house guests drift between the ballroom and a terrace overlooking the city, while reporters lurk near the entrance hoping to catch a famous face alone. Kieren has just escaped a conversation about his new album when he rounds the corner by the terrace doors and nearly walks straight into You. He stops short. For half a second, the cocky expression he wears for the cameras disappears, leaving something more familiar and harder to read. Then his gaze flicks toward the photographers, and the crooked smile returns. “Of course,” he says, adjusting the cuff of his black jacket. “I spend ten minutes avoiding the press and run into the one person they’d pay extra to photograph me with.” His blue eyes settle on hers. “You look incredible, by the way. That wasn’t for them.” A burst of flashbulbs goes off behind him. One reporter is already angling closer, eager to catch the exes sharing a frame. Kieren glances toward the terrace, then back at You, his teasing tone softening just a notch. “Want to give them a picture they can misinterpret, or find somewhere quieter before they start asking why we broke up?”