Chapter 11: The Festival of Almosts

BASTI'S POV

"If you feel something, bury it deep and lose the shovel."

I didn't mean to overhear them.

But I did.

And I couldn't stop hearing it even after I walked away.

Denzel's laugh was quiet, awkward, surprised. Luke's voice, smooth and a little too close. Her silence? Heavy. Telling.

I told myself it didn't matter.

That she could talk to whoever she wanted. That I didn't have the right to care.

Still, it clung to me. Like sweat after practice. Like a song I couldn't un-hear.

"You okay, Cap?" Tim asked, tossing me a volleyball.

"Fine," I said.

I wasn't.

I served. Too hard. The ball smacked against the net and fell.

"Try again," Nate said, nudging it back. "You've been off today."

No kidding.

We were mid-practice at Mater Carmeli's training gym, but my body wasn't synced. My feet moved out of rhythm. My hands felt heavy. Every time I tried to focus, that moment rewound in my head—Luke smiling at her like she was a story he couldn't wait to write himself into.

And she didn't stop him.

Not really.

I jumped for a spike and landed wrong, my ankle turning slightly on impact.

"Fuck," I muttered, stumbling to the side.

Tim rushed over. "You good?"

"I'm fine."

"You're limping."

"It's nothing."

Coach blew the whistle. "Break. Garcia, bench."

I didn't argue.

I limped off court and sat on the bench, wiping my face with a towel and trying not to wince.

Across the gym, Luke was stretching against the wall. He caught my eye. Raised an eyebrow. Didn't say a word.

Good.

Because if he did, I wasn't sure what I'd say back.

After practice, I stayed behind. Said I needed extra reps, but I didn't even touch the ball. I sat on the gym floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out. My phone buzzed.

Mom: Don't forget the scheduled dinner. Your fiancée's family is coming.

My throat tightened.

I didn't reply.

The gym echoed with silence.

I stared at the court and thought about choices. About control. About what it means to be born into a life where decisions are made for you—every step, every play, every future.

And then there was her.

Denzel, with her clipped words and sharp eyes. Who looked at the world like it was a game she refused to lose. Who made me feel like maybe, for once, I didn't have to perform.

I sat there, in the middle of an empty gym, trying to remember who I was before all of this.

Before her.

Before Luke.

Before something started—something I wasn't sure I had the right to want.

—

DENZEL'S POV

Rule #11: Nothing good ever happens when the lights are too soft and the music is too loud.

I wasn't supposed to be here. Technically, I'd said no.

But then Luke sent a follow-up message that said, "One hour. If it sucks, you can leave. If it doesn't, you can pretend you came for the free food."

Which was persuasive. Against my better judgment, I came.

Holy Cross and Mater Carmeli had turned the shared gym into a scene from an indie dream—fairy lights zigzagged above, folding chairs draped in mismatched satin, and a makeshift stage taped together like a secret. It shouldn't have worked.

But it did.

And the worst part? It was... kind of beautiful.

Students from both schools mingled, some in formal wear, others in street style. A table in the corner served punch and cupcakes like we weren't all under twenty-five and emotionally unstable.

Hannah waved at me from the DJ booth like she was the queen of the night. Rheiza gave me a thumbs-up from behind a makeshift tea station.

And Luke?

He was on stage.

Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. Mic in hand.

He wasn't dancing yet—just holding the mic like a secret and making the crowd feel like part of it. Something about choreographing this event with his team, something about a "dance that tells a story."

The second the music started, he changed.

It wasn't flashy, at first. Just fluid movements, steady rhythm. Then came the footwork—precise, sharp, effortless. He spun, hit a pause with his chest out and arms open, like he was daring the crowd to breathe.

They didn't.

Neither did I.

Because Luke wasn't just performing. He was communicating. And halfway through the song, he looked straight at me.

I froze.

He stepped off stage at the bridge of the song, walked through the crowd like he was following a thread only he could see, and stopped in front of me.

He extended his hand.

I shook my head. "Luke—"

"It's one dance," he said. "Not a contract."

I wasn't sure if it was my eyes or my feet that said yes—but somehow, I was already walking with him. The crowd made space. The lights dimmed.

He drew me into the center—one hand steady on my waist, the other cradling mine. Not tight. Just certain.

We swayed. I missed a step. He caught it without comment.

"You're not bad," he said near my ear.

"I'm following your lead."

"Always a good strategy."

I rolled my eyes.

He smiled.

And then, the song slowed.

We weren't doing anything special. We were just... there.

Close.

Too close.

His eyes flicked to my lips. Mine to his.

The air shifted. The lights dimmed further. The music faded into something quieter, deeper.

He leaned in—

And I turned my head.

The kiss didn't land. Instead, his lips brushed my cheek, and we both froze.

I pulled back. "Sorry."

He held still. "Don't be."

But I couldn't meet his eyes.

I walked off the floor and didn't stop until I was outside, leaning against the wall and trying to catch my breath. Behind me, laughter and music swelled again.

I didn't hear footsteps—but I felt the weight of someone watching.

And somewhere beyond the open double doors, Basti Garcia stood by the exit.

He didn't clap during Luke's performance. Didn't move when we almost kissed.

But now?

Now he was gone.