Tyler didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on her, not sharp, but steady in that way it had when he was trying to read past her words, like he wanted to weigh the truth against the shape of her face. His jaw flexed once, the muscle flickering, then stilled.
"I want to believe that," he said finally, his voice still low. Not doubting—just tired, worn from the pull of the night. His eyes shifted, sweeping the room, the clusters of nobles pretending not to notice them while very much noticing them. "But it's hard not to feel like I'm always two steps behind what everyone else thinks they see."
He exhaled, quiet, controlled. "It's not you I don't trust," he added quickly, before the thought could plant itself between them. "It's them. All of this." His hand pressed a little firmer at her waist, not possessive but grounding, as if anchoring himself. "Sometimes it feels like I'm chasing after shadows—after versions of you that don't even exist—just because they say they do."
The admission sat between them, raw in its honesty. He didn't throw it like a weapon; he set it down carefully, almost reluctantly, like he was afraid of what it might do once it was out in the open.
Isla's chest tightened at his words. Not the way it did with Dorian—sharp, restless, unsteady—but in a slower pull, something that made her want to reach for him.
"Tyler," she said softly, her tone coaxing rather than defensive. "You know me. Not the headlines, not the whispers. Me." She searched his face, willing him to meet her eyes. "If I could control what people said, none of this would've started. But I can't. They'll twist anything. A step, a glance—" her mouth tugged wryly, though it didn't quite make a smile "—even a breath if it looks dramatic enough."
His eyes flicked back to her, searching again, though this time what he sought seemed less like answers and more like reassurance.
"I just don't want them to turn you into something you're not," he said. The words were roughened by honesty, but quiet, as though he was speaking only for her. "I don't want to lose the version of you I know in all their noise."
Her hand shifted, brushing lightly against his arm. "You won't," she told him. The promise came out steady, but her voice gentled on the edges, carrying more warmth than defiance. "I'm still me. And I'm still here."
The music wrapped around them, steady and low, but it felt like the world had pressed a hush into the space between their words, like the whole room was waiting on what he would do next.
His gaze lingered on her, something unspoken tugging behind his eyes. The weight in his chest seemed to ease just a fraction, and for the first time that night, his hold on her wasn't edged with doubt—it was steady, anchored.
"You don't know how much I needed to hear that," he murmured, his thumb brushing once against her hand where it rested on his arm. Then, quieter, almost like he didn't mean to let it slip: "I don't want to lose you."
The words sat between them, fragile and unadorned, but they hit harder than any accusation could have. Isla's breath caught, her lips parting on a reply she didn't manage to shape.
Tyler didn't wait for it. His hand lifted, cupping her cheek with a carefulness that contradicted the storm she could still see in him. And then—without flourish, without hesitation—he leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn't dramatic, no sweeping gesture for the crowd. It was firm, certain, as if he'd finally decided this was the only language strong enough to stake his place at her side.
For a heartbeat, Isla froze, startled not by the kiss itself but by everything wrapped inside it. Then she let her eyes close, returning just enough pressure to tell him she'd heard what words couldn't carry.
Across the room, Dorian's gaze tracked the moment. He hadn't missed the thread running through Tyler all evening—the watchfulness, the unease that bordered on possessive. Now, seeing it sharpen into a kiss in front of the entire ballroom, his smirk curved slow and deliberate.
Isla might not notice the shadows her boyfriend carried, too wrapped in her affection to name them. But Dorian did. He'd been reading Tyler like he read most men—calculating, predictable, small. Except this one... perhaps not so small.
Interesting.
The thought curled in his mind as he lifted his glass, sipping leisurely, his expression a mask of idle amusement. Let the court whisper over the commoner girl and her bold boyfriend; what Dorian saw was a line being drawn. And he'd always had a talent for stepping over lines just to see what might break.
Tyler pulled back slightly, his forehead still close to Isla's, his breath unsteady. His voice came low, steady but edged with something more fragile. "Let's go," he murmured. "End the night with just us."
Her lips parted, still caught on the heat of the kiss, but she nodded. She could see it in his eyes—the mixture of need and resolve, the quiet plea to step away from all this noise.
They moved toward the doors together. The hush that followed them wasn't silent so much as weighted—gasps and murmurs tucked behind fans, polite smiles stretched too thin. Isla felt the stares ripple at her back, the ballroom bending around their departure, but she kept her chin lifted.
The air shifted near the threshold, a camera flash cracking bright and sharp, the soundless explosion freezing them mid-step. Isla blinked against the sting in her vision, her fingers tightening instinctively around Tyler's hand.
And then they crossed through, leaving the ballroom's clamor behind.