“You seem a little more relaxed now,” he comments.

His thumb makes a small sweep against the side of my hand that’s still on his leg. It’s another thing that’s so small and insignificant, but this is all so new—he’s so new—that it leaves me hoping for just a little more when I probably shouldn’t.

A waiter reaches to refill my glass. “Must be the champagne.”

“Or the dress,” Fitz suggests.

I try to ignore the way my cheeks warm. “You seem very relaxed.”

Fitz inches closer, bringing the smirk into clearer view before he shifts, the scruffiness of his cheek pressing against mine. “Must be the dress,” he whispers into my ear.

His smile against my cheek cuts deeper than I ever could’ve imagined.

“I hate to make you anxious,” he whispers. “But we’re being watched.”

I can think of a hundred other words to describe how I feel when Fitz reaches out to brush my hair off my shoulder. Anxious is nowhere on that list. But only one word comes to mind when the pads of his fingers dance along the skin of my shoulder, pushing away an invisible strand only he sees—entranced.

“Are we?”

“By the entire room.”

It’s amazing. In a room of a hundred, he somehow makes me feel like it’s just us.

And isn’t that how it’s always been? Us against everyone and everything. As kids, we were Peter Pan and the Lost Boys against Captain Hook. We were robbers taking on an entire crooked police force. And as we outgrew our imaginations and Rebel clubhouse, we still managed to find fun creating a ruckus, playing pranks on Maddy and scheming with Honey.

But this… the way his eyes hold mine, it’s different, so different that it’s hard to remind myself that even though we’ve grown up, we’ve gone back to the land of make-believe, that the way Fitz’s hand clamps mine against his leg isn’t as intense in reality as it might be in my head.

I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse to feel so much in this pretend play.

“You asked me something before?”

Beside me, Lo laughs, and it reminds me of our conversation that happened just a minute ago, even though under Fitz’s delicate stare, it might as well have been yesterday.

“Jerseys.”

“Jerseys?”

I swallow heavily. “Do you like them?”

“They’re more of a necessity than anything. Hard to keep all that gear from flapping around,” he teases.

“I mean on me. Would you like me to wear one at one of your games? I’m trying to prepare for my football-wife era.”

Fitz cocks his head. “That depends. Would you be wearing anything else?”

“With millions of people watching, I might consider underwear.”