Everyone’s cheering, but it feels like they’re cheering for something I’ll never have and then his mouth moves. Just one word. Silent. Sharper than a blade.
Butterfly.
My chest caves. My knees almost give. I grip the bouquet tighter just to stay upright. The girl next to me thinks I’m overcome, hands me a tissue with a sympathetic smile, and I almost laugh because she has no idea.
No one does.
Not that I’m standing here clapping for Lola’s forever while mine is sitting in the back, staring at me like he already owns it.
The photos drag. Family, bridesmaids, groomsmen, all of us arranged and rearranged like dolls on display. Lola is radiant. The groom beams. Everyone keeps saying perfect, perfect, perfect.
I smile, because that’s what you do. My cheeks ache with it, muscles screaming from holding something that isn’t real but I feel him.
Every time I shift, every time the photographer waves me closer, Dax moves too. Not obvious. Not loud. Just enough. A shift of his weight. A drag of his boot. A lean against the wall like he’s bored, when really—he’s waiting.
Waiting for me to crack.
Waiting for me to look again.
I don’t. I stare at Lola, at her veil catching the light, at the rings sparkling on her hand. I stare at anything that isn’t him but my body betrays me.
My spine tingles, my pulse thunders, my fingers twitch around the bouquet until petals snap off. I know he sees it. I know he’s cataloging every tremor, every shallow breath, every second I’m fighting to stay composed.
When it’s over, everyone claps again. Laughter. Champagne corks. The bride is swept inside, the groom tugging her after him, and suddenly the crowd spills apart, blurring in movement and chatter.
That’s when I see it.
The path.
A straight line between me and him. No more bodies in the way. Just him leaning against the stone archway, tie loose, shirt collar open like sin in a tux.
Our eyes lock.
The breath catches in my throat so hard it hurts.
He doesn’t move at first. Just watches me. Eyes sharp. Mouth curved, the ghost of a smile that isn’t joy, isn’t pride. It’s possession. Pure and simple.
The bouquet slips. Hits the ground at my feet and I move before I can stop myself.
One step. Then another.
The noise of the crowd blurs, the laughter fades, the music muffles, until it’s just me and him and the pulse in my throat screaming you’re a fucking idiot.
When I reach him, his mouth tips close to my ear. Not touching. Not quite. His voice a razor only I can hear.
“Run all you want, Butterfly. You’ll always walk back to me.”
My knees buckle. My chest twists. And God help me—he’s right.
The music shifts. Strings, soft and aching, spilling out into the garden as couples begin to drift onto the floor. Lola glides past in her white dress, her head tipped back with laughter, her groom spinning her like this is all that matters.
And then—his hand closes around mine.
Not rough. Not dragging. Just iron.
I should pull back. I should tell him no, not here, not in front of everyone. But my body’s already betraying me. My fingers curl into his like they never forgot.
“Dance with me,” he murmurs, his mouth so close to my ear the words heat my skin.
