The reception drifted into being under the glow of string lights and champagne flutes clinking. The dance floor pulsed with first dances, then group dances, then the kind of wild cousin conga lines that would live on social media for decades.
Piper, now barefoot, tossed her shoes beside a planter and leaned against a marble column, champagne flute in hand. Her head tilted back as she sighed long and low, the picture of exhaustion laced with total joy.
Zach approached.
"Permission to request a dance?" he asked, stepping close enough that his voice dipped into the space between them like a shared secret.
She eyed him with playful suspicion, one brow arching, arms folded over her chest. "Just the one?"
He pressed a hand to his heart, eyes locked with hers, voice certain. "I'll take as many as I can get."
She shook her head, but her smile betrayed her. "You can have them all."
He offered his hand, his voice quiet but steady, "Then I'll never let the music stop."
With a roll of her eyes and a low laugh, she slid her palm into his. "Oh, you practiced that line, didn't you?"
Their fingers laced. The contact, small as it was, made all the worry and all the concern he'd been hanging onto about messing things up go still somewhere in his chest.
They drifted onto the edge of the dance floor as the song shifted to some classic love ballad lightened by strings and nostalgia. The world blurred around them in flickering lights.
Her hands settled on his shoulders as his arm slipped easily around her waist. Then, slowly, she leaned in, and her cheek came to rest against his chest like it belonged there. Her breath was steady, and the tension she carried seemed to melt as she pressed closer.
"I don't bite," he murmured, resting his chin gently atop her head.
She tilted her face just enough for her words to reach near his heart. "I know. That's part of the problem."
"We could try it if you want." He chuckled and ran his hand in a slow circle along the small of her back. The hush between them was fragile, honest.
Then he whispered, careful to speak gently into the curve of her ear, "You did it."
Her voice, warm and near and barely above the music, was a breath against his shirt. "We did it."
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, the brush of his lips lingering a heartbeat longer than casual.
Her fingers clenched lightly against his shoulder in response, and something about the quiet gesture pulled the floor out from under him. Not in fear, but in that dizzy, beautiful way when it feels like something might matter more than you're ready to admit.
His pulse thundered against the pressure of her cheek. Dangerously calm. Too calm. Say it now or lose the chance. Hell, say it wrong.
Just… say it.
He hesitated, swallowed once, then said low and close so it wouldn't scare the moment off, "Don't freak out, but… I might be in love with you."
The words weren't smooth. They tumbled out with the grace of a tipsy toddler like Nadia. They were messy and unbalanced and, honestly, too much.
Instant panic. His gut clenched.
He braced for her to bolt, or laugh, or maybe deliver one of her infamous strategic exits.
But none of that came.
She leaned back enough to meet his eyes.
"Oh." She blinked like someone who'd found herself halfway through a dream and didn't know whether to hold or run.
"Oh?" he echoed, already preparing to backpedal, to throw in a joke or excuse the confession as a momentary lapse in sanity.
And then she kissed him.
