Then Ana appears at our side with a tray. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla cuts through the heaviness, warm and sweet.
“Two pastéis de nata,” she announces proudly, sliding the plates onto the table. “Fresh from the oven. Best way to end the night.”
Ana disappears again, leaving us with two still-warm tarts. The first bite melts on my tongue, sweet cinnamon cream breaking the tension like it never existed. Jay hums in approval.
“Okay,” I say, licking pastry from my lip. “This might be my new favorite food group.”
His eyes track the movement, and having his attention so intently makes my desire spike and my skin flush. He looks away just long enough to take another bite of his own, but the warmth in my body stays, heavy and as sweet as the dessert we’re enjoying.
The candle flickers against his skin, the rest of the restaurant fading until it feels like we’re in our own little pocket of space. Then a new song drifts through the speakers, something slow and lilting, and the chatter of others gives way to chairs scraping as couples rise from their tables. One by one, they step into the open space, swaying together.
Jay’s eyes flick toward the dance floor, then back to me. A hint of mischief curls his mouth, devastating my heart. “What do you say?”
I blink. “To what?”
He stands, offering his hand across the table. “Dance with me.”
My stomach flips, filled with unrelentingly excited butterflies. No one has ever asked me to dance. I place my hand in his, and he guides me to my feet, steadying me.
Jay draws me into the space with an ease that makes me feel like I’m floating. His other hand finds my waist, firm and warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and suddenly, I’m not sure where to put my own.
I settle one on his shoulder, the other hovering nervously against his chest, and his quiet smile tells me he notices. He shifts just enough to tuck me closer, until the space between us is little more than the press of heat and the brush of breath.
The music is slow, every note filling the silence between our heartbeats. His thumb moves in small circles against my hip. My cheek almost brushes his shoulder, and when I tip my head the tiniest bit, I can smell the mix of his cologne, something woodsy and clean that makes my chest ache.
I catch his toe with my own and grimace. “I’m terrible at this,” I whisper, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because my pulse is hammering so loud, I think he can hear it.
“You’re perfect at this,” he murmurs back, voice quiet enough that it feels like a secret meant only for me. His breath stirs against my temple, and goosebumps rise along my arms.
We sway like that, caught in a rhythm that feels both endless and fleeting. His chest rises and falls against mine, steady where mine is erratic, and I think if I close my eyes, I could let myself believe in this—believe that safe can feel like this. That I’m allowed to want this, despite telling myself otherwise for the last few months.
When I finally risk looking up, his eyes are already on me. They don’t dart away, don’t hide. They hold me there, patient and intent, like he’s cataloguing every flicker of my expression, every unspoken thing that I’m sure is written on my face.
That he makes me want to say things I’ve spent months denying myself.
That I’m afraid he’ll look away, but also terrified he won’t.
That I like the quiet when he’s in it with me.
The song winds toward its end, but neither of us moves to let go. If anything, his hand at my waist presses me closer, until there’s no space left at all. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something solid to keep me upright when everything else feels like it’s tilting.
Chapter thirty-four
Liv
Bythetimeweget back to the apartment, my body hums with something restless. The evening’s weight lingers, but it’s counteracted by Jay’s steady presence, by the way he held me on that dance floor and waited until he was satisfied that I’d relaxed more. Only then did he take me home.
Since being here, though, he’s done everything to keep things slow between us. Holding my hand in the car, grazing his thumb back and forth.
Even the walk up to our apartment, there wasn’t any rush. He closes the door behind us, and the click echoes in the quiet. He takes my coat before I can shrug it off, his fingers brushing my shoulders, leaving sparks in their wake.
“Water?” he asks, his breath dusting the back of my neck, but he’s already moving toward the kitchen.
“Sure.” My voice comes out thinner than I mean it to.
I follow helplessly and watch him pour a glass, roll his sleeves back again, and expose those strong forearms I’ve beenpretending not to obsess over all night. When he passes it to me, his fingers graze mine, lingering just a beat too long.
The sip of cool liquid does nothing to cool me down.
