“I was so busy down in DC,” I tell Josh’s wife, Lo, “The gala completely slipped my mind. I had to scramble. I guess it’s a little boring.”

Lo throws her mane of bouncy blonde curls back. “Boring? The way that’s draped on you? I just meant, considering he kept you hidden away for all this time, maybe Fitzy is the protective type.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I have no idea if Fitz is protective, but I go ahead and assume at least a little bit because, for the first hour we spent here, he didn’t go a minute without touching me in some way.

“I don’t blame you for not going to the games and all that. Seeing as, you know”—she looks at Agent Samuels against the wall—“you kind of have an entourage.”

I try to fight off the grimace. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? I’ve never had a friend with private security before. Josh doesn’t exactly ride with that crowd. But you have to promise you’ll come to games next season. We really have a lot of fun. And don’t let them fool you”—she motions around the table—"they act all macho and like their head is only in the game, but nothing makes them happier than having us there. They totally love it. Bonus points if you rock his jersey.”

I would’ve thought that who is watching the game is far less important than playing the game itself, especially for someone as focused and determined as Fitz. I glance at him to my right as he leans back in his chair with his head turned away from me. When Lo is called into another conversation, I place my hand just above Fitz’s knee. Like it’s instinct, he covers it with his own.

“Do you love it?” I ask, my question a whisper.

Fitz drags his face to mine. “What was that?”

I’m focused on the way my hand disappears beneath the span of his. When did that happen? Fitz was always taller, that’s true, but even on the last day I saw him, never was he so much. And it’s only now I’m noticing—not just the weight he bears in his thick, strong legs, or how his hand seems to have a wingspan all on its own—but the broadness of his shoulders, the span of his chest. His presence—after being separated for so long—somehow is inescapable.

“Parker? You okay?”

Fitz reaches across, tilting my chin up. Immediately I’m taken back to the car, remembering how he used just enough force to grab my chin between his thumb and index finger. He doesn’t bring my face closer to his, but god, somehow it feels the same. Just as electrifying. Just as exciting.

“You alright?”

It’s only when I nod that Fitz drops his hand from my face.