She’s wearing this long brown skirt with tiny flowers on it and a pink tank top knotted at her waist. It leaves a thin strip of skin showing, making me ache every time I steal a glimpse.
God, I can’t stop staring at her.
The way her hair moves, the way her eyes find mine again like she never lost them.
And fuck me.
This right here? This is something I thought I’d lost. It’s something I’ve dreamed about.
Over and over again.
Three years of empty nights and long drives and too much whiskey and not enough sleep—and every time I let my mind wander, it came back to this.
To her in my arms.
Dancing.
Smiling at me like I’m still hers.
Only every time I woke up?
She wasn’t there.
That’s on me, though.
All of it.
I know that now.
I own it.
I’ve lived with it.
And now? Now, I’m gonna fix it.
My jaw tightens as I pull her a little closer, my hand firm at her waist.
I’ll tell her.
All of it.
Everything I know now.
Everything I got wrong.
But not tonight.
She’s not ready.
Hell, maybe I’m not either.
So I do what she asked.
I dance.
And my chest feels so goddamn tight I can barely breathe.
Like something’s building inside me—pressure, hope, fear—all twisted together into something I don’t know how to control.
