Page 15 of Ava After Midnight

“If you keep moving like that,” I warn, “I’m going to forget all about being a gentleman.”

She turns in my arms and the look in her eyes nearly breaks me. “And if I don’t want a gentleman?”

“What do you want?” I lift my hand and place it gently so I’m cradling her jaw. My thumb grazes her bottom lip.

“You.” Simple. Devastating. “But I can’t have you. Not yet.”

“Yet,” I echo, letting the promise of that word settle. “Show me every song that makes you feel free.”

The opening notes of “La Última Vez” fill the space. My body moves before I can stop it—muscle memory ensnaring me yet again. The music speaks the language of my past—watching her move, I’m overcome with the realization that she dances to the tune of my future.

Ava’s eyes widen as recognition dawns.

“Wait, I know these moves.” She pulls up a video on her phone—me, five years younger, commanding a stage in Madrid. Her gaze flicks between the screen and my face. “You’rethatDomingo?”

“Was.” The word tastes like ash. I take her phone and close the video, swallowing the instinct to snatch it away. “Until I blew out my knee in the finals. Turns out dancing with a fever is more than just a cliche.”

I say it like a joke, but my body still remembers—still pays the price. The faint ache beneath my skin flares up like muscle memory, a cruel reminder.

Ava’s eyes drop, flicking over me like she’s searching for proof. I know what she sees. The faint scar just above my knee, the one I never let heal right. The way I shift my weight, favoring one side when I think no one’s looking.

“But you still move like?—”

“Like I’m haunted?” I pull her close, syncing our bodies to the beat. “Some ghosts never leave,princesa.”

Her fingers trail absently over my shoulder, skating across the faint, raised lines there. The ones that never healed right. The ones that remind me why I stopped.

“Tell me,” she whispers, following my lead perfectly.

I should brush her off. Smirk. Give her some charming lie. But she’s watching me too carefully, her curiosity too sharp.

“Nothing to tell.” I say, voice lower. A white lie, easy to swallow. “Pride made me dance when I should have stopped. Biggest mistake of my life—it cost me everything.”

My hands guide her through a complex turn, the movement second nature even after all these years. She doesn’t see the ache it leaves behind. The fire that burned too hot, too long. The price I paid.

“Now I pour drinks and teach beautiful engaged women dangerous moves.”

Her brow furrows, like she doesn’t quite believe me, but she doesn’t push.

“Only the ones who need saving?” she teases.

I should laugh. Should brush it off. But something about the way she says it makes my chest tighten.

Only the ones who make me remember.

“You don’t need saving.” I dip her low, bringing her up slowly, letting my hands linger a fraction longer than necessary. “You need someone to show you that your cage isn’t locked yet.” I look pointedly at her left hand, her engagement ring still with her friend Zoe.

Something flickers in her eyes—uncertainty, defiance, hope.

“My job interview next week…” she hesitates, voice barely audible over the music. “It’s for a creative director position. Something Matthew doesn’t know about.”

“Because he wouldn’t approve?”

“Because it’s not part of his five-year plan for us.” Her laugh is bitter as she breaks away, spinning solo. “God forbid I want more than being the perfect corporate wife.”

“What do you want to create?” I catch her mid-spin, drawn to her fire instead of her body this time.

“Everything. Anything.” She presses closer, voice dropping. “I have whole worlds inside my head, Domingo. Colors and concepts that would scandalize his country club friends.”

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