Ian didn’t process the terrace door close until the guest had disappeared back into the wedding crowd. His eyes refocused and, suddenly realizing he was standing alone in the summer air, steadied himself. “God, it’s hot,” he whispered, fanning his face. He didn’t remember how mentally draining trying to hide nerves like that was.

The guest – perhaps an inch taller than Ian – threw him for a loop. The part of him that fell in line with other people’s moods, gently changing Ian’s gestures and tone and word choices, fell quieter; Ian felt himself. The guest’s expression was soft, pained, yearning. His stare made the world muffled, the hairs on his skin standing on end. So many things bundled into a shadowed expression that Ian wanted to press on, find out every woe and bump and joy and indent etched around his soul.

Never before had words left him so breathless, so aching to close distance. Invisible strings embedded into the backs of his hands wanted to crawl closer and closer until their skin touched, but Ian restrained himself. Hands fixed to the railing, his arms crossed, always close to his body.

Dropping his head, Ian retraced the conversation frantically as if every word had been a potential bombshell. He laced his fingers together. He ran his thumbs over the sides of his fingers.

All of it unnerved him.

That was an understatement. Ian wanted more.

He sighed, settling into the soft croonings of a woman. The air was sickly warm, the ceiling too low, yet Ian felt sheltered, safely nestled into the building’s side. He scoffed, smirking. ‘That was something.’

Three minutes later, Ian returned inside, sensing every passing moment away from his table, with a sliver of hope that he’d meet that guest again.