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The entire ballroom seemed to be made of glass and gold.
Warm light streamed from the chandeliers like liquid honey, reflecting off the glasses, earrings, brooches, and subtle buckles. The sound of the orchestra was soft enough to allow for conversation, but present enough to draw couples onto the dance floor. A string quartet played something classical with a modern beat hidden beneath — elegant, polished, expensive.
Everything smelled of sophisticated perfume and champagne.
And Luke hated it.
But the problem wasn’t the dance.
Luke had survived worse: speeches that went on too long, ties that were too tight, champagne that was too expensive served in glasses that were too small. He could handle all that.
The problem was Penelope.
Penelope.
A long, light-colored dress, shimmering delicately as it catches the light with every movement. Her hair is partially pulled back, with loose curls framing her face. She seems out of place and perfectly at home at the same time, as always.
And Tyler Green is standing right in front of her. Confident. Relaxed. Handsome in that effortless, natural way. Her arms wrap around his neck with an ease that seems all too natural. Tyler says something — Luke doesn’t hear it — and Penelope throws her head back, laughing heartily, her dress sparkling under the chandelier lights.
They move subtly, almost stiffly, to the sound of that romantic, syrupy strumming that fills the air.
And Luke feels that strange taste rising in his throat — bitter, dry, unexpected.
Jealousy.
He has no right to feel that. They’re nothing. They never were.
He stands leaning against the bar as if he’d been left there by mistake. His tie feels tighter now. The collar rubs against his skin. The air conditioning is cold, but he feels hot — that unpleasant heat rising from his stomach.
The bartender slides a glass toward him.
Whiskey. Amber. Clear.
Luke brings it to his lips. It tastes bad.
Not objectively bad. The kind of bad that doesn’t come from the drink, but from the person drinking it. Too bitter. Too dry. It scrapes his tongue. It goes down heavy, almost metallic. He swallows it anyway.
For a second or two, he hates himself. A lot.
It’s not a dramatic hatred. It’s not loud. It doesn’t explode.
It’s small. Quiet. Cutting. Annoying in every way.
Because he isn’t that guy.
He isn’t the guy who stares with that furious look. He isn’t the guy who finds himself counting down how much longer that song will last. He’s not the guy who feels that ugly tightness in his chest when he sees someone happy.
He’s not the guy who thinks "he doesn’t know her like I do."
He’s not the guy who thinks "she laughs differently with me."
He’s not the guy who thinks "I should be there."
But he is thinking.
Everything.
And that leaves him with a sour taste in his mouth, worse than bad whiskey, worse than the dry air from the AC. A taste that isn’t just jealousy — it’s shame.
Because Penelope is happy.
And, for a moment, that bothers him.
He clenches his jaw.
Behind him, someone orders a martini. Another laughs loudly. Glasses clink. Ice clinks against glass. The bar is a noisy refuge, and yet Luke feels alone there.
On the dance floor, Penelope spins, and Tyler pulls her back, his hand firmly on her waist. Luke notices everything. The way she trusts him. The way she relaxes. The way she seems to be thinking of nothing else. The way she clearly sees nothing but his face.
And that’s what hurts.
Because Luke thinks about her all the time.
He thinks about her when she sends funny reels at 1 a.m.
He thinks about her when she brushes against his arm while explaining some absurd theory.
He thinks about her when she laughs at her own jokes.
He thinks about her when she’s quiet — which is rare, but it happens.
And he thinks about her while she’s thinking about someone else. Someone who leads her with ridiculously confident ease on the dance floor.
Penelope leans in close to Tyler and whispers something in his ear. Tyler smiles that easy, charming, unbearable smile of his. Luke feels his stomach drop.
He tries not to stare too much.
He fails.
He takes another sip.
Terrible.
— Is this bad? — Asks a familiar voice beside him.
Luke hadn’t even noticed anyone had come over. Emily is standing there, holding a glass, scrutinizing Luke’s drink as if it were evidence.
— Maybe — Luke replies automatically.
Emily tilts her head slightly.
— It’s one of the best whiskeys on the menu.
Luke shrugs.
— It doesn’t seem like it.
Penelope turns, and her dress unfolds like a flower. When she turns back, she’s smiling at him — at Tyler — with that open, warm smile Luke has seen so many times… But never quite like this.
Emily follows his gaze. And she understands.
— Oh.
The silence that follows is just… Conscious.
Tara appears on Luke’s other side, as if summoned by emotional radar. She follows his gaze as well.
She sighs, pressing her lips in an uncomfortable line.
Luke pretends not to notice.
He takes another sip. Now the drink tastes almost sour. He swallows it anyway.
On the dance floor, Tyler pulls Penelope a little closer. Too intimate. Too dangerous. Penelope lets him.
Luke grips his glass a little tighter. His shoulders tense as if they might snap at any second.
Emily watches it as if she were witnessing an accident in slow motion.
— He's… — She begins, then stops.
Luke holds back a growl.
She chooses her words carefully.
— ...Nice.
Luke exhales through his nose, shaking his head softly while a wry smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
— Of course he is.
The music changes. Another melodic, unnecessarily romantic ditty. Tyler spins Penelope around again. When she comes back to him, he whispers something in her ear. Penelope blushes. Luke notices it even from a distance.
His throat burns as if he’d swallowed molten iron.
Rossi appears behind them, silent as always when he senses tension. He follows the collective gaze. He watches. He understands immediately.
— Oh, man…
Luke doesn’t answer.
Rossi crosses his arms.
— Want me to knock him over by accident?
Luke exhales through his nose.
— No.
— I can request another song.
— No.
— I can-
— Dave.
Silence. Rossi raises his hands in surrender.
— I’m here, that’s all.
Tyler’s thumbs caress those spots just below her ribs. His hands slide down slightly, gripping the sides of her waist with military precision. Penelope’s eyes widen for a split second, and her expression melts into approval. Luke sees it. Of course he does. He sees everything.
Because he can’t stop looking.
He thinks — involuntarily — of all the times he had a chance to touch Penelope.
In the elevator. At a crime scene. When she was nervous. When she was too happy.
He never knew if that meant anything.
But now he sees her doing it with someone else. And it looks… Easy. Natural. As if it had always been that way.
As if it were meant to be that way forever.
Luke orders another whiskey, which is brought out very quickly. He downs it in one gulp, and it’s the worst sip of all. Bitter, dry, completely devoid of any good flavor.
And then he notices it before anyone else does.
The way the space between them shrinks. The way Penelope tilts her head slightly. The way Tyler looks at her — not like someone dancing, but like someone making a decision.
Luke feels his stomach clench.
No.
No, no, no-
Tyler whispers something else. Penelope smiles. A small smile. Almost shy. Different from the loud laughter of before.
She doesn’t pull away. That’s what kills him. She doesn’t pull away.
Tyler tilts his face.
And he kisses her.
It isn’t long. It isn’t deep. It isn’t dramatic.
It’s a gentle, careful kiss, like someone testing the possibility of something.
But it’s enough.
Luke doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his chest starts to ache. The noise in the hall fades away. The clinking of glasses, the orchestra, the conversations — everything becomes a distant, muffled sound, as if he were underwater.
Penelope is taken aback for a second. She blinks twice. And then… She kisses him back.
It lasts less than four seconds, but it’s enough for Luke to feel something give way inside him. Not break. Not shatter. Just… Give way. Like thin ice cracking under weight.
He looks down at his own glass. He doesn’t remember picking up another one in the interval between one pain and the next.
He takes a sip. Unpalatable.
Luke can no longer pretend that the drink is bad. Now he knows with absolute, clear-cut and analytical certainty that the problem is him.
He sets the glass down on the counter.
— I’m going out for some fresh air — He says quietly.
No one tries to stop him.
Penelope laughs again — out on the dance floor — and the sound doesn’t reach him. He's already walking away when the song ends behind his shoulders.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to see if they’re breaking up. He doesn’t want to see her smile at Tyler in that pathetic, absurdly beautiful way that makes his heart ache.
He walks through one of the open doors onto the terrace, where the night air flows in gentle breezes and the sound of the music reaches him more muffled, as if coming from underwater. The city lights shine below, bright spots amid the darkness, like stars in an upside-down sky.
For a second or two, he hates himself again. He hates himself for not being able to simply look and think “she deserves it,” without the next part. Without the “with me.” Without the "I’d do better".
The cold wind touches his face. Luke runs his hand through the back of his neck, takes a deep breath.
He gulps, his throat scratchy and still burning from the excess whiskey, and the hatred begins to dissolve. Not completely. Never completely. But enough.
Because he loves everything that makes Penelope… Penelope.
He loves her easy, open smile.
He loves her little clumsily way of dancing.
He loves the fact that she loves unconditionally, without restrictions, despite all the times her heart has been broken before.
Maybe he even loves the fact that someone is making her laugh and blush and dance like that.
And that hurts like hell.
Luke rests his hands on the cold railing of the terrace. The metal is solid. Icy. Real enough to pull him back from the spiral of despair that is trying to swallow him whole.
He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air until they ache, and then exhales slowly, exhausted.
For another second or two, he hates himself. Completely.
Then, he just misses her.
He misses everything he loves about her, and everything he won’t get to experience with her.
Because, inside the building, in the ballroom, the one dancing with her, kissing her lips, It is the tall, perfect, hateful Tyler Green.
And Luke just wished it were him.