“And maybe,” he continues, “a life where I don’t have to carry everything alone.”
“Nash…” My voice is a whisper.
He shakes his head gently, not to dismiss me—but because he’s still processing. Still opening. Still learning how to be vulnerable outside trauma and tragedy.
“It’s easier,” he admits softly, “when you’re around.”
Something hot and sweet blooms under my ribs.
“You make things feel… lighter.”
My breath stops.
Just stops.
I squeeze his hand. “You make me feel safe.”
For a long moment, we just sit there—the ocean stretching out before us, the music weaving through the air, the glow of string lights casting everything in soft amber.
When we’ve exhausted conversation and paid the bill, Nash stands and again offers his arm, leading me out ofthe restaurant, but pausing just as we hit the parking lot.
“It’s a gorgeous night. Feel like a walk? The view off the pier is something to behold when the night is this clear.”
I grin up at him. “Lead on.”
The boardwalk is lit with small lanterns, swaying gently in the breeze. The waves lap softly beneath us, rhythmic and soothing.
“You doing okay?” he asks as we stroll. “Any pain at all?”
“No pain,” I promise.
At least not physically. Emotionally? I’m not sure how I’m doing. I’m feeling everything. All of it. All at once. The comfort of being in his presence. The confusion of realizing my life as a dancer will never provide the security I apparently crave. The realization that Nash does provide that security… and that my bootless ankle means time with him is surely coming to a close.
He smiles—a small, crooked thing that feels like it’s meant only for me, a quiet invitation back into our happy little bubble.
We walk until the crowd thins and the music drifts faintly from the restaurant behind us. The moon hangs low, silver and glowing, reflecting off the water in broken ribbons.
And then Nash stops. Turns toward me. Steps in close enough that I can feel his warmth.
“Promise me you won’t judge,” he asks, those storm-gray eyes suddenly vulnerable.
“Judge you about what?”
He takes my hand, lifts it to his chest.
“This.”
He pulls me gently into him, one arm sliding around my waist, careful with my balance, careful with me.
And then he begins to sway, slow, soft, almost shy.
I forget to breathe for a beat. This man—this steady, stubborn, quietly tender man—is slow dancing with me under the moonlight like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
There’s no music except the sea, but he hums. A sound so soft it feels like it was made for my ears alone. A quiet, low melody against my ear—warm breath brushing my cheek, the vibration of his chest under my palm. I tuck my head against his chest, letting him lead, letting myself melt into the moment, into him. His hand stays steady at my back, supportive but never confining.
“How could I judge you for something like this?” I ask as happiness blooms in my heart and works its way through my extremities.
“I’m no dancer,” Nash says simply. “Judgment seemed inevitable.”
