Heartbroken (A Christmas Story) 7

He didn’t let go of my hand.

Mr. Harlan led me through the crowd, weaving past bodies pressed too close, past the bar where girls were laughing too loud, past the stage where Derek was still grinding for tips.

His grip was firm, warm, steady like he was making sure I wouldn’t disappear into the chaos.

I could feel the tension in his fingers, the way his thumb brushed my knuckles once, almost by accident. Or maybe not.

We didn’t go toward the main exit. Instead, he turned down a narrow hallway lined with red velvet ropes and “Staff Only” signs.

The music dulled behind us, replaced by the low hum of the club’s ventilation and our footsteps on the concrete floor.

At the end of the hall was a heavy metal door marked “Rooftop Balcony Private.” He pushed it open with his shoulder, cold December air rushing in like a slap.

The balcony was small, half hidden behind a brick wall, strung with white Christmas lights that flickered softly against the ni