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Then he does something that feels almost more noticeable. He looks away, giving me a clean, deliberate second to pull myself together.

Heat floods my cheeks.

Men don't look at me like this.

Men look at me like I'm a problem to be managed.

A body that should come with an apology.

This man looked.

He absolutely looked.

But not like he was taking inventory.

Like he noticed something worth noticing and had the restraint not to make it my problem.

His thumb shifts against my spine.

Half an inch.

Maybe less.

The movement is practical, steadying, not claiming. My body is apparently not interested in practical distinctions tonight.

"I think I'm okay now," I say. "You can let go."

My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.

"I could." He doesn't move. "Are you steady?"

I am not even slightly steady.

"I'm meeting my boyfriend," I blurt, because apparently my brain has decided this is the most urgent information available.

He lets go instantly.

Not slowly.

Not reluctantly.

One second his hands are on me. The next, he's taken a full step back.

"Of course you are," he says.

Something flickers across his face. Then it's gone.

"Lucky man."

"Thank you," I say. A little too softly. Then, because I can't leave well enough alone: "For that. And for the catching. Mostly the catching."

That rumor of a smile again. "Mostly the catching," he agrees.

He looks at me for one long, quiet moment.

"I hope he knows it."

My chest tightens. Nobody has ever spoken about Mark as if Mark were the lucky one.