“No.”
The word comes out stronger than I expect.
I soften it immediately, reaching for his hand.
“I don’t want to,” I admit. “Not right now.”
Because if we talk?
Really talk?
I might hear something I’m not ready for.
And tonight—tonight feels too fragile to risk.
“Just,” I take a breath, searching his face. “Dance with me. Will you dance with me?”
For a second, he just looks at me.
Serious.
Still.
Like he’s weighing something.
Then he nods.
Slow.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll dance with you.”
The band shifts into a slow country song, something soft and aching, and he takes my hand, leading me out onto the makeshift dance floor.
Twinkle lights hang overhead, casting everything in a warm golden glow.
People move around us.
Laughing.
Swaying.
Living their lives.
But the second he pulls me in—it all disappears.
His hand settles at my waist.
Mine finds his shoulder.
And just like that—it’s only him.
Only us.
He spins me once, slow and easy, like he’s done it a hundred times before, and when I come back into him, I don’t fight it.
Don’t hold back.
I just fit.
