“Yes,” he answers simply. “I always will.”
The Landing sits right off the pier, with a private upper deck dotted with warm string lights and small lanterns hanging from hooks like fireflies caught mid-glow. Nash offers me his arm as soon as we’re out of the truck and I thread mine through. It feels natural, like there’s a place carved out for me there. Our hostess takes us to a secluded table on the upper deck overlooking the water. The sun is dipping low, turning the entire bay into rose gold. The lighthouse blinks in slow intervals. The breeze smells like salt and jasmine.
Soft live music drifts from below—an acoustic guitar, mellow and sweet.
Nash pulls out my chair. He doesn’t make it a production. He doesn’t wink or say something clever. He just… does it. Quiet and intentional.
Like caring for me is a reflex.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I sit.
His hand brushes my back when he pushes the chair in, just barely—a warm, steadying line of contact that sends a very unhelpful shiver down my spine. The hostess hands us our menus, then walks away and I take in the view, the atmosphere, the man sitting across from me. As beautiful as it is here, he’s the one thing I can’t look away from.
I let out a contented sigh. “Nash… this is perfect.”
“Thought it might be your kind of thing.” He says it so quietly, so unassumingly, that I can’t help but smile.
We order our meals. Seared ahi tuna for him and a blackened salmon salad for me. We eat. We talk. The live music and soft clink of silverware threads through our conversation as the sun sets in all its glory and the soft glow of the lanterns and twinkle lights takes over.
Nash leans forward, elbows braced lightly on the table. “Can I ask you something?”
I shrug lightly. “Of course.”
“What’s your dream? Not your career goal. Not what your agent wants. Not what your dad thinks is responsible.” He tilts his head. “You. Just you. What do you want for your life?”
The question takes me off guard. The easy answer—the answer I’ve always given to that question—is that I want to dance. That it’s been my dream for as long as I remember.
I curl my fingers around my glass, staring down at the ice cubes shiftingsoftly inside.
“If I hadn’t lost the tour with Sandro René, I’d say that was the dream. I’ve been laser-focused on making dance my profession for as long as I can remember. But, since I’ve lost it, since I’ve been here in this happy little bubble with you, I can also see myself wanting something solid. A life that doesn’t make me feel like I’m constantly scrambling to prove something.”
Nash bobs his head, listening intently, the curiosity on his face quietly urging me to dig deeper.
“My dream…” I inhale, my gaze focusing on the sky behind him like I can read the answer in the stars. “I think what I really want is… security.”
I try the word on for size, testing it, trying to understand it. Tonight is the first time I’ve ever answered that question without instantly defaulting todance.
Nash’s hand slides across the table, palm up—an invitation. Not a demand.
I place mine in his.
He laces our fingers gently, like he’s afraid of squeezing too hard.
Like he knows how fragile this truth feels.
“Somehow,” he says quietly, “it feels like those two dreams contradict one another.”
I blink rapidly, once, twice. “Yeah. It kinda does, doesn’t it?”
And I don’t know what to do about that.
“What about you?” I ask carefully. “What’s your dream?”
Nash’s thumb brushes over the back of my hand. A thoughtful stroke. Slow. Almost absent-minded.
“My dream…” He inhales, eyes drifting out to the water. “Once upon a time it was following in my father’s footsteps. Then it morphed to putting more good into the world than I took out. Now? I want a life that feels honest. Not rushed. Not chaotic. A life where I feel like what I do is worth the energy. A life where I have a purpose.”
He turns his full attention back to me, something raw shining in his eyes.
