My eyes catch her feet first, bare against the hardwood. My gaze trails upward, and when our eyes lock, it's like magnets finding their match. I've had the shit kicked out of me multiple times, but I've never had the breath stolen from my lungs quite like this. Nora descends the stairs like a dream walking into reality. Her emerald dress clings to her frame, the slit high enough to make my pulse forget its rhythm. The color makes her eyes more vibrant than I've ever seen them, and her hair cascades in waves, catching the light as she moves with so much grace. Every step is deliberate, unhurried, as if she knows exactly what she's doing to my sanity.

She's not just beautiful—she's blinding.

The kind of sight that makes everything else blur around the edges until there's nothing left but her. Lenora Wells is the song I've been trying to write my whole life, the melody that's always been stuck in my head, but I could never quite catch.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs, barefoot, holding her heels with a dramatic sigh.

"I hate these things. If I could, I'd wear my Converse instead."

I chuckle, because of course she would. She was always the girl who preferred the Stones over The Backstreet Boys, who'd rather play football than with dolls. She was always different, and that's what I loved about her.

"I think Marcus would have a meltdown if you showed up in Cons.”

We both laugh and she rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there—the same smile that used to make my teenage heart skip beats, now doing dangerous things to my adult one. As she leans against the railing, struggling with one heel, the fabric of her dress makes it impossible for her to bend.

"Ugh, stupid dress. I can't⁠⁠—"

"Here, I've got it," I offer, kneeling without thinking.

Her foot rests lightly against my knee as I slide the shoe on and do up the buckle. Her dress shifts slightly, the slit parting just enough to reveal the curve of her leg. My fingertips brush against her ankle, and that small contact sends electricity through my veins. I glance up at her, and the world narrows to just this: her catching her lower lip between her teeth, the pulse visible at the hollow of her throat, and the way her hands grip the railing tighter. A faint blush creeps up her neck.

She's mesmerizing—I notice things I've spent my whole life learning to read about her, each freckle and smile, and gesture a thing I know by heart now. I secure the other shoe, my fingers ghosting over her ankle.

"There," I manage, my voice rough. "You're good to go."

"Thanks," she breathes, the word falling from her lips like a secret.

Camilla's entrance shatters the moment. "Let's go! We're going to be late!"