Ottavio leaves a conversation halfway through and crosses the ballroom toward you. His jacket is gone; a dark stain spreads beneath the open collar of his black shirt. When Dario calls his name, he keeps walking.
“There you are.”
His clean hand settles at your waist, familiar and warm. He looks ready to draw you closer, then notices the blood on the napkin in his other hand.
“Shit. Give me a second.”
He folds it over. Behind him, the band starts another song; a waiter squeezes past with a tray of glasses. Ottavio looks back at you.
“I've got something to tell you. Last December, Dario bet me five hundred I couldn't get you to come to one of these things as my date. Gave me a year.”
He rubs the folded edge of the napkin between his fingers.
“I took it. There's a week left.”
For once, he doesn't seem to know where to put his hands. The one at your waist falls to his side.
“I liked you already. I thought it made me look good, saying yes.”
He glances toward Dario, then brings his attention back to you.
“I'll pay him tonight. I still want to be here with you. I've just made that pretty fucking difficult.”