We move together, not really waltzing, just swaying in a slow circle while the music washes over us. Around us, other couples laugh and spin, but I'm barely aware of them. I'm aware of Cat—the warmth of her body, the scent of her perfume, the way her thumb is tracing small circles on my waist.
"People are watching," she murmurs.
"Let them watch."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Iris—"
"I'm tired of caring what people think." I step closer, closing the distance between us until we're almost pressed together. "I've spent my whole life performing. Being perfect. Being what everyone expected." I look up at her, and I hope she can see what I'm feeling, hope she can read it in my eyes. "Tonight I just want to be here. With you. And I don't care who knows it."
Cat's breath catches. Her hand tightens on my waist.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
The song ends. Another begins—something faster, livelier. Around us the dancers shift and rearrange, and I feel Cat starting to pull away.
"Wait." I catch her hand before she can and make myself hold her eyes. "Is there somewhere we can be alone?"
Cat goes very still. Whatever she sees in my face makes her breath go shallow.
"Yeah," she says. "Come on."
And this time she's the one leading. She knows this place the way I know a balance sheet—every alley, every shortcut, every shadow—and she doesn't hesitate once. She pulls me out of the crowd, away from the lights and the music, under the plane trees and past the fountain throwing its silver spray, around the corner of the ancient stone church to a little courtyard tucked behind it, walled off from the fête by all that old stone.
The music drops to a muffle. The only light is the stars and the string-light glow filtering through the leaves.
"Nobody comes back here," Cat says quietly. "Not during the fête. It's the one quiet corner left in the whole village tonight." She turns to me, a question all over her face. "Iris. What are we doing back here?"
I turn to face her fully. She's so close, half in shadow, her eyes dark and searching. The bravery that got me this far is still thrumming under my skin—but now there's fear too: of getting this wrong, of ruining everything, of finding out that what I'm feeling isn't real.
But under the fear is something stronger. Something that's been building for weeks, maybe months, maybe my whole life.
"I've been thinking," I say, and my voice is steadier than I expected. "About what you said on the terrace. About wanting to do things right."
"And?"
"And I've realized—I don't actually know what 'right' looks like. I've never done anything like this before." I swallow. "But I know what I want. And I'm tired of being afraid to reach for it."
Cat is very still. I can see her chest rising and falling, faster than normal. Her lips are slightly parted, and her eyes haven't left my face.
"What do you want?" she asks, and her voice is rough, barely above a whisper.
"You." The word falls between us like a stone. "I want you. I've wanted you for weeks, and I've been too scared to admit it, and I'm done being scared."
"Iris—"
"I know it's complicated. I know I'm still figuring things out. I know there are a thousand reasons why this might not work." I step closer, until we're toe to toe, until I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face. "But right now, in this moment, I don't care about any of that. I just want—"
I don't finish the sentence.
Because I kiss her instead.
For one terrifying second, nothing happens. Cat is frozen, statue-still, and I think I've made a horrible mistake—
Then her hands come up to cup my face, and she's kissing me back, and the world dissolves.
It's nothing like I expected. I expected fireworks, explosions, some dramatic cinematic moment. What I get is better—softer. Her lips are gentle against mine, questioning at first, then moreinsistent. She tastes like wine and something sweeter, something that's just her. Her fingers slide into my hair, tilting my head, changing the angle, and I make a sound I've never made before—a small, desperate noise that seems to come from somewhere deep in my chest.
