The dance floor was flooded with elegance - political couples turning in rhythm, spinning lies beneath chandeliers, hiding secrets in plain view.
Mia stepped into it like a predator entering a clearing.
Lucas followed, two steps behind.
No hand offered. No words spoken. He simply took her waist like it belonged to him - confident, firm, precise.
And she let him. For now.
Her skin prickled where his hand rested on the small of her back. Not from the pressure - but from the precision.
This wasn't a man who touched lightly.
He touched like he was used to command... and rarely told no.
The music swelled, but the silence between them was louder.
"You're not wearing a name tag," she murmured.
"You're not asking for it."
"I don't need to."
Lucas let out a soft breath - not quite a laugh. "You always this charming with foreign soldiers?"
"Only the ones who stare like they're preparing for war."
"Maybe I am."
Their feet moved in perfect sync - like bodies trained to anticipate danger.
His grip never tightened, but it didn't need to.
He was studying her. Testing her weight. Learning her rhythm.
She leaned in just slightly, close enough that her lips nearly brushed his ear.
"Careful, Colonel," she whispered. "You might start to enjoy this."
His jaw ticked.
But he didn't pull back.
"You're not what you pretend to be," he said.
"And you're not nearly as cold as you'd like to be."
A single moment stretched between them - a breath too long to be innocent.
The music slowed.
He didn't let go.
Her voice dropped, just for him.
"Now... are you going to keep pretending this is just diplomacy?"
He finally spoke, voice low, rough.
"No. But I'm not pretending I trust you either."
Her smile was slow. Pleased.
"I never asked you to."