“Tinker,” he murmurs.
I look at him.
He nods toward the floor below.
“C’mon.”
My heart skips.
He stands, holding out his hand.
And I take it.
Of course I do.
He leads me down, the music growing louder, the lights warmer, everything pulling me deeper into the moment.
Then his hand slides to my waist.
Gentle.
Certain.
My hands rise, resting against his chest before sliding to his shoulders.
We move slowly.
His grip shifts, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
My breath catches.
His mouth brushes near my ear.
“You okay?”
A shiver runs down my spine.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “More than okay.”
His thumb traces slow circles against my hip, absentminded and devastating.
I tilt my head, my cheek brushing his, eyes slipping closed for a second.
The music.
The warmth.
The way he holds me like I matter.
And when his grip tightens just slightly, like he doesn’t want to let go, something soft settles deep in my chest.
Something steady.
Something I’m not ready to name.
But I feel it.
The rest of the night blurs in the softest way, like something I’m trying to hold onto even as it slips through my fingers. Music shifts from one artist to the next, the sweetness of cheesecake lingers on my tongue, his hand finding mine again and again like it belongs there.
