His hand spreads warm at the small of my back. Mine slides up over black wool to the hard line of his shoulder. We sway in the soft shadow of the curtain while the room glitters on without us, and for a minute I can’t tell whether I want to cry or kiss him or climb inside his ribcage and live there.
Maybe all three.
He says nothing.
He doesn’t have to.
His body says enough.
That he’s here.
That he remembers.
That he came back for this.
For me.
The song shifts.
And then it happens.
The first note hits and everything in me goes still.
No.
I know this song.
I pull back a fraction, eyes flying to his.
He already knows.
He did this on purpose.
My breath catches so hard it almost hurts.
Five years fall away and then don’t, because the difference is standing right in front of me in a tuxedo with his hand steady at my back and love—God, maybe love—in his eyes.
This time, Tristan doesn’t get nervous.
Doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t hide behind charm or fear or youth.
He just looks at me through the whole song.
Holds me through it.
All the way.
Not tight.
Not desperate.
Sure.
The kind of sure that says more than any apology ever could.
His forehead rests to mine again. We move together slowly while the music wraps around us like memory corrected, and it feels like the entire room disappears until there is only the two of us and the song and the impossible, beautiful fact that he did not let go this time.
