Pete turned immediately toward Danica. “Come here, wife-to-be.”
Danica rolled her eyes, blushing as always, but she stepped straight into Pete’s arms, her laugh muffled against Pete’s shoulder as they started to sway.
Maggie turned to find Kiera in front of her, holding outher hand like they were about to waltz in the middle school gym.
Maggie laughed. “Oh, is this happening?”
“Don’t leave me stranded,” Kiera said, mock-dramatic, glancing around at the couples already pairing off. Her eyes were bright, flushed from dancing but still shy in that Kiera way.
Maggie took her hand. “Fine. But I’m leading.”
“Obviously,” Kiera said, her arm looping around Maggie’s shoulder.
And just like that, they were swaying among the crowd — Pete and Danica twirling nearby, strangers slow-dancing like they’d known each other forever. The whole bar softened around them, neon and noise dissolving into something intimate.
For the first time all weekend, Maggie didn’t feel like she was trying to prove anything. Just warmth, music, and the comfort of a friend.
Kiera’s hand was steady on her shoulder as she guided them in a small circle as if they’d actually practiced this. Maggie let herself sink into the rhythm, the sway easy, no pressure to perform.
Halfway through the song, Izzy appeared at Maggie’s elbow. “May I cut in?” she asked, already sliding a hand onto Kiera’s waist.
Kiera pretended to balk, but her smile gave her away. “I guess you may.” She leaned into Izzy without hesitation, their foreheads nearly brushing as they found their own sway.
Maggie stepped back, letting her hands fall to her sides. For a second she smiled, genuinely — because god, Izzy looked like she might actually burst with happiness. But then the awkwardness crept in, heavy and familiar. She was suddenly just… spare. An extra in someone else’s love story.
She turned toward the bar, scanning for a server, ready todisappear into another drink. Anything to give her hands something to do besides clench.
And then Gwen was there.
Not suddenly, not dramatically, but close, warm, cutting into Maggie’s line of sight like she’d only been waiting her turn. Her mouth was set in that calm line Maggie knew too well.
“Shall we?” Gwen asked, offering a hand.
It was so simple, so Gwen — understated, even with all the heat thrumming underneath.
Maggie’s pulse kicked. She should’ve said no, she knew that. But her hand was already moving, sliding into Gwen’s before her brain could catch up.
“You hate dancing,” she said, arching a brow as Gwen guided her back into the slow rhythm of the song.
“I hatebaddancing,” Gwen countered, sliding an arm around her waist with infuriating ease.
Maggie snorted. “Guess I should warn you, I peaked at middle school mixers.”
“I remember,” Gwen said, a flicker of a smile ghosting across her lips. “You stepped on my foot three times during our first dance.”
“That was nerves, not skill,” Maggie said, chin tilting up.
Gwen huffed a laugh, quiet but real, and it buzzed in Maggie’s chest like victory.
Still, being this close — Gwen’s hand firm at her back, the clean scent of her shampoo threading through the whiskey-soaked air — was undoing her more than she wanted to admit. Banter was safer. Banter she could handle.
“So what’s this, then?” she asked lightly, letting her tone edge toward teasing. “Some kind of pity dance?”
Gwen’s eyes flicked down, briefly, to her mouth. Then back up. “Not pity,” she said.
Maggie’s throat tightened. She forced a grin, playful, reckless. “Flattery?”
“Saving everyone else from your heels,” Gwen murmured. “Since you’re still a menace on the dance floor.”
