Or vulnerability.
Or both.
I take his hand.
We walk toward the makeshift dance floor. The music is soft and slow.
Finn places one hand on my waist.
I rest mine on his shoulder.
And we begin to move.
Awkwardly.
We’re two people trying not to step on each other’s feet in a cramped space, but technically speaking, we’re dancing.
My heart races.
“Finn…”
“I’m not good at this,” he says suddenly. “Pretending.”
“Neither am I.”
We keep dancing.
The music flows around us. Other couples spin gently through the room, wrapped in their own worlds.
But we’re here.
Too close.
Too quiet.
Too aware of each other.
His hand on my waist feels warm. Steady. Safe.
My heart beats too fast. Too hard.
The music ends.
We stop moving too, but neither of us steps away.
Nobody applauds.
Nobody watches.
Nobody notices us at all.
We were dancing for ourselves.
And that’s exactly what terrifies me.
I pull back abruptly, breaking the contact.
“I… I need some air.”
