I danced with Coop when he dragged me into the middle of the floor during the chicken dance and I protested loudly while doing it anyway, because some traditions were bigger than dignity.
“I hate you,” I told him, flapping my arms like an idiot.
Coop grinned. “No you don’t.”
“Maybe not,” I admitted, still flapping. “But I want to.”
His laugh was bright and familiar, and it squeezed my heart in that sweet, aching way it always did. We stayed out there for the Macarena too.
I danced with Rachel too, because obviously.
We danced like we always had—like we were made of sharp elbows and laughter and shared history, like our bodies knew what to do even when our lives didn’t.
By the time the third song rolled around, I was warm and breathless and happy in a way that felt almost suspicious.
Rachel spun me once, then pulled me in closer.
Her eyes were bright.
Not with mischief.
With something else.
Something… nervous.
That stopped me cold.
Rachel didn’t get nervous.
Rachel got angry. Rachel got sarcastic. Rachel got ruthless.
Rachel did not get nervous.
She guided me toward the edge of the ballroom, away from the center, away from the crowd. The bubble machine hissed nearby. The lights glittered off the balloons overhead.
“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately.
Rachel exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years.
“I’ve waited a long time to do this,” she said softly.
My brows knit. “Do what?”
“Please don’t be upset,” she added, and my stomach dropped because I had never—never—heard Rachel ask that way.
My heart started thudding.
“Rachel…” I said carefully. “What are you?—”
She stepped closer.
Her hands came up, gentle and hesitant—also something I had never seen from her.
And then she kissed me.
Not a joke.
Not a dare.
