Ava watched him flag the server, clocked the way he looked to her first before adding the second drink. She didn’t overthink it. Just met his eyes and gave a small nod — easy, certain.

When he put it on his tab, she smiled.

“Thank you,” she said, warm and uncomplicated. “I appreciate that.”

She lifted her glass and finished the last of it while the moment still felt intact, the ice chiming softly as she tipped it back. When she set it down, she shifted just enough to make room — and her shoulder brushed his. Not an apology-touch. Not a test. Just a natural consequence of how close they were sitting.

She let it happen.

His teasing pulled a quiet laugh from her, the kind that lived more in her chest than her throat. She shook her head slightly, amused, eyes bright.

“I stand by it,” she said. “Dippy eggs are serious business. Anyone pretending otherwise is lying to themselves.”

She leaned in a fraction as she spoke, elbow resting on the table now, posture relaxed but engaged.

“And gas station snacks are absolutely a strategy,” she added. “You have to respect the environment. Go in with a plan or you’ll come out with three things you don’t want and none of the ones you do.”

Her smile softened when his tone shifted — when it stopped being just playful and turned more deliberate. She noticed that. Let it land.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly, when he talked about her opinions. “I don’t really know how to be any other way.”

Then she felt it — their knees, still touching.

She glanced down briefly, a small, private smile tugging at her mouth at the sight of it. She didn’t move. Didn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed. Just let the contact stay where it was, easy and unclaimed.

When she looked back up at him, her expression was open, steady.

“You’re easy to talk to too,” she said. “In a way that doesn’t feel like work.”

She angled a little closer without making a show of it, shoulder still near his, knee still touching his like it had decided on its own.

“And,” she added lightly, eyes warm, “I don’t usually linger places this long unless I want to.”

She let that sit — no rush, no expectation — as the hum of the bar carried on around them, the night unfolding at its own pace.

Ava let the quiet stretch after her last words, not because she didn’t have more to say, but because she liked that she didn’t have to rush it. She rested her forearm on the table now, fingers loosely interlaced, the cool wood grounding beneath her skin.

She glanced at the empty space where her glass had been, then back to him, a faint smile returning.

“I should probably pace myself,” she said lightly, nodding toward where the new drinks would eventually arrive. “I forget sometimes that lingering also means… time passes.”

Her eyes dipped again, just briefly, to where their knees were still touching. The contact felt settled, like it had decided on its own to stay put. She didn’t move away. Just shifted enough to be comfortable, letting it remain without commentary.

“That thing you said,” she added, voice softer now, thoughtful. “About staying when something feels unfinished.”

She looked back up at him, steady.

“I don’t do that very often,” Ava admitted. “I’m usually good at convincing myself to leave right when things get interesting.” A small, self-aware smile. “It feels safer.”

She paused, then shrugged lightly.

“But tonight,” she continued, “I didn’t feel the need to do that.”

The server passed behind them, setting fresh drinks down within reach. Ava slid her hand around her glass, lifting it just enough to acknowledge it before setting it back down again.

“So,” she said, tone warm, curious, unforced, “what usually makes you stay?”

Not challenging.
Not loaded.

Just a question offered honestly, as the bar noise swelled and softened around them and the night kept unfolding — unhurried, intentional, still very much in motion.

He dipped her like he meant it.

Not as a show. Not to pull focus. Just because he could—and because he knew she liked it. The confidence in it, the steadiness. The way his hand didn’t budge from her waist even as her hair brushed the floor, the world tipped sideways, and her breath caught for reasons that had nothing to do with balance.

When he said her name—warm, teasing, fond—she couldn’t help but grin up at him from that angle, like he’d just handed her the night wrapped in ribbon.

And when he pulled her upright again, arm snug around her, rhythm locked into hers like it always had been… yeah. That was the part that wrecked her a little.

Because it was easy to feel bold with Declan. Easy to laugh. To flirt. To make a mess of herself and know he wouldn’t flinch.

But it was even easier to want him in moments like this. With the lights flashing, the crowd pressing in, and the music making everything feel a little softer at the edges. His hands knew exactly where to land. His body moved like it had memorized hers. And whatever he murmured—just for her, close and low—sent heat curling down her spine.

She let herself go a little more after that. Let her hips sway a beat slower, let her head tip back when she laughed, let her eyes linger on his like she wasn’t worried about who might be watching. Her buzz wasn’t just from the drinks anymore—it was the way he looked at her like she was his whole damn plan for the evening.

Her fingers slid up the front of his shirt, slow and deliberate, just until they curled at the collar.

“You keep doing that,” she murmured, only just loud enough to reach him over the music, “and I’m gonna start thinking we should skip the last round.”

She tilted her chin, eyes glittering with the kind of mischief that came with permission.

“Call it a night early,” she added, “so we can finish this dance somewhere with fewer witnesses.”

It wasn’t a question. And it wasn’t just a tease.

Because the way he held her—steady, proud, like he knew exactly what he had and wasn’t letting go—made her want to chase that feeling straight home. Made her want to kiss him in the doorway, tug him toward the bedroom with her boots still on, and show him just how good he made her feel when the music faded and the world got quiet.

But for now? She spun herself into him again, head resting briefly against his chest like she’d meant to pause, but her body didn’t quite want to.

“I’ll give you one more song,” she said with a grin he’d feel more than see.

“Maybe two.”

And then she moved again—wild and sure and lit from the inside—because every beat of this night was a promise.

And he was keeping every single one.

Miles didn’t say anything at first.

Just watched her, content in the way she took her time with the silence—like she trusted the space between them not to turn heavy. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t perform. Just stayed exactly where she was, her fingers laced on the table, her glass empty, her knee still warm against his like it had nowhere better to be.

He liked that about her.

The ease. The steadiness. The way she could be both measured and soft without undercutting either one.

Her voice drifted over again—dry, amused—and he smiled as he reached for the basket of fries, nudging it closer to her side of the table like it was second nature.

“Strategic pacing,” he said lightly, “starts with carbs. I support this move.”

But it was the word lingering that tugged something a little deeper out of him. Not in the obvious way—he didn’t call it back, didn’t say a word—but it stirred.

Because she had said that earlier, over the music and crowd, with her eyes still adjusting to the shift in light and her tone too offhand to be anything but true.

“If I’m really trying to slow down, it’s ‘Linger,’” she’d said. “The kind of song that makes you stop rushing through whatever you’re doing.”

And now here she was, telling him without telling him that she was still here on purpose.

That meant something.

He leaned back slightly, elbow slipping over the booth’s edge as he shifted to face her more fully, his shoulder still angled toward hers, still close.

“I get what you mean,” he said, his voice a little quieter now, not because he was hiding anything—but because there was no need to oversell it. “About leaving early. I've done that more times than I can count.”

He reached for the fresh beer the server had just dropped off, nodded his thanks again without looking away from Ava, and let the bottle rest between his palms for a beat before continuing.

“I used to think leaving first gave me some kind of control. Like maybe if I bounced before something went sideways, I could convince myself it never really mattered.”

He glanced down for a second, the smile tugging at his mouth thoughtful this time, not sharp.

“But lately?” His gaze returned to hers. “What makes me stay is usually the quiet stuff. The in-between moments. The way a conversation feels when there’s nothing you’re trying to prove.”

He let his thumb roll slowly along the glass bottle.

“Like right now,” he added, tone light again, but not dismissive. “This? Feels… unfinished. In the best way.”

Then he tilted his head slightly, that crooked half-smile making a return.

“So if you’re lingering, I’d say I’m in good company.”

He lifted his beer again, an easy gesture, the movement slow and grounded.

“And if I’m lucky,” he added, eyes still on hers, “we’ve got time.”

Declan didn’t rush it.

He let her finish the spin, let the music crest and settle again before he answered—because he wanted her to feel it, not just hear it. His hands stayed where they belonged, sure and warm, thumbs drawing slow half-moons at her waist like he was keeping time just for them.

He leaned in, mouth close to her ear, voice pitched low and easy against the beat.

“Early?” he said, a quiet laugh threading through it. “You say that like I haven’t been thinkin’ it since you grabbed my collar.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, all that fearless joy shining right at him. And God—there it was. The pride. The unmistakable, I-can’t-believe-I-get-this feeling that always hit him hardest when she looked like this.

He kissed her again—not deep, not hurried. Just a firm, steady press that said I’m with you, right here, before resting his forehead briefly against hers.

“Two songs,” he agreed. “I can do two.”

His hand slid to the small of her back as he guided her into the rhythm again, letting her lead, letting her burn bright without trying to corral it. He moved with her, not over her—easy steps, relaxed shoulders, grin breaking free every time she laughed.

“And then,” he added, catching her hand and lifting it to spin her once more—clean, smooth, practiced—“we’ll settle up, thank the universe for good music, and head out.”

When she came back into him, he caught her like it was instinct, arm secure around her ribs, chest to chest. He dipped his head, brushing his mouth along her temple.

“No witnesses needed for the rest,” he murmured. “But I’m not in a hurry either.”

He straightened, eyes meeting hers, steady as ever.

“Take your songs,” he said simply. “I’ve got you.”

And as the music carried them forward again—lights flashing, floor vibrating—Declan stayed exactly where he was meant to be, dancing with the woman he was proud to be seen with, ready to follow her all the way to the door when the last note faded.

Declan didn’t say it right away.

He let the song carry them for a few more beats, let her move the way she wanted—loose and laughing, bright in that way that made the whole room feel a little warmer. His hands stayed steady, one firm at her back, the other holding hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When the chorus swelled again, he leaned in, mouth close to her ear, voice calm and sure beneath the noise.

“You’re havin’ fun,” he said, not a question. Just an observation, said with a smile she could hear. “I like seein’ you like this.”

He shifted them slightly, angling so they weren’t boxed in by the crowd, keeping her space clear without making a show of it. Protective, but easy. Always easy with her.

Another beat passed. Then another.

“And for the record,” he added, quieter now, thumb brushing slow over the curve of her hand, “I’m not rushin’ you anywhere. I just like knowin’ where we’re headin’ when you decide we are.”

His eyes met hers when the lights flared again—steady, warm, proud. No teasing this time. Just truth.

“But when you’re ready,” he continued, squeezing her hand once, “I’ll walk you out. Hold your coat. Make sure you get home safe.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“And if you decide one song turns into two more,” he said, shrugging slightly as he pulled her back into the rhythm, “I’ll still be right here.”

He followed her again, no hesitation, letting the night stretch just a little longer—content, grounded, completely at ease with wherever she wanted to take them next.

Ava let his words settle without rushing to meet them, the way she always did when something felt honest enough to deserve space. She noticed the way he nudged the fries closer, the quiet familiarity of the gesture, and it made her smile — not wide, not showy, just real.

“Carbs do feel like the right foundation,” she said softly, reaching for one fry and rolling it between her fingers before taking a bite. “Emotionally, at least.”

She chewed slowly, eyes on him, listening past the humor to what sat underneath it.

When he talked about leaving early, about control, her expression shifted — thoughtful, open. She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to fix it. Just stayed with him, knee still warm against his, shoulder close enough that she could feel the easy steadiness of his presence.

“I do that too,” she said quietly when he finished. “Convince myself that timing equals intention. Like if I leave at the right moment, I can decide what it meant.”

She smiled at herself, a little rueful.

“But it never really works,” she added. “You still carry the feeling with you. You just don’t give it a place to land.”

Her fingers slid back to the table, resting near his now, not touching but close enough to register. She liked that he named the quiet things — the in-between — without trying to make them heavier than they were.

“This does feel unfinished,” Ava said, meeting his gaze steadily. “But not in a way that makes me nervous.”

She glanced down for a brief second, noticing again how neither of them had moved away, how the contact felt settled instead of charged.

“I think I’m learning,” she continued, voice gentle but sure, “that staying doesn’t always mean committing to something big. Sometimes it just means letting a moment be what it is… without rushing it toward an ending.”

She lifted her glass when it arrived, fingers wrapping around it, but she didn’t drink yet. Just held it there, present.

“So,” she said, eyes warm, a hint of a smile returning, “if we’ve got time…”

She paused, letting the sentence breathe.

“I’m okay letting it look exactly like this for a while.”

Ava let the quiet settle after her last words, the kind that didn’t feel like a pause so much as a landing. The music from the jukebox shifted then — something slower, familiar enough to hum along to without realizing you were doing it. She noticed before she meant to. Felt it in the way the room subtly reoriented, bodies adjusting, conversations softening around the edges.

She glanced down at her glass, finally taking a small sip, then set it back on the table. When she looked up again, her expression had changed just slightly — not bolder, not nervous. Just decided.

“You know,” she said, voice gentle, almost casual, “I don’t usually do this.”

She smiled as she said it, not apologizing for it, just naming it.

“But right now?” A small shrug, one shoulder lifting. “It feels like one of those moments you regret talking yourself out of later.”

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the open space near the jukebox, where a couple people had started swaying more than dancing, really — loose, unchoreographed, unselfconscious. Then back to him.

“So,” Ava continued, quieter now, but steady, “do you want to dance?”

She didn’t dress it up. Didn’t make it a joke or a dare. Just an invitation, offered the same way she’d offered everything else tonight — honestly, without pressure.

Her knee stayed right where it was against his.

“And we don’t have to be good at it,” she added, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m mostly interested in the staying part.”

Hattie didn’t answer him right away.

She just let herself spin back into the circle of his arms, laughter still catching in her throat as her palm slid easily into his again. Her pulse was quick from the song, from the lights, from him—but her expression had softened into something steadier now, her smile lingering even after the beat shifted.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t look like someone with a deadline.

Her body stayed close, her steps syncing with his like muscle memory, the music becoming more of a suggestion than a lead.

But after a moment—once the tempo relaxed and the crowd around them thinned just a little—she tipped her head toward his, breath brushing his jaw.

“I’m not in a rush,” she said, quiet but sure. “Ava and I came here together, but…”

She let her voice trail off for a second as her gaze flicked toward the booth, catching just enough of Ava’s profile where she sat tucked into the corner—face turned slightly toward Miles, shoulders relaxed, fingers resting loose around her drink. There was no tension. No hint of impatience or being left out.

Just that unmistakable stillness Hattie had seen maybe twice in the past six months—usually only when Ava found a book good enough to silence her overthinking.

“...but it doesn’t exactly look like we’ll be missed,” Hattie finished, eyes back on him now, full of something warm and a little wry. “At least not right away.”

Her brow arched, suspicious in the fondest way.

“Almost like somebody,” she said, voice lowering with mock-accusation as she let her hands drift up his chest, “conveniently forgot I wasn’t coming here alone. And just so happened to show up with a tall, charming distraction in case his favorite girl needed more than two songs.”

She let her hands rest there for a second—flat against the fabric of his shirt, just over his heartbeat—and tilted her head slightly.

“I see you,” she added, a little smirk ghosting across her lips. “Even when you play it smooth.”

But there was no real bite in it. If anything, she looked like she might be holding back a laugh. Like she liked being figured into his plans, even the subtle ones. Especially the subtle ones.

“And for the record,” she added, voice softer now as she leaned in again, cheek brushing his temple, “if this was your master plan…”

She spun beneath his arm again, slower this time, letting her hand trail down his as she turned back into him.

“…it’s workin’.”

And with that, she fit herself into place once more—right where she wanted to be. Dancing. Not hurrying. Letting the night write its own ending.

Because she’d go when Ava was ready.

But until then?

She was exactly where she wanted to be.

Miles didn’t move right away.

He watched her instead—really watched her—as she spoke, that quiet steadiness of hers somehow managing to soften the air between them without even trying. Her words were careful but not guarded, honest without apology. And they landed with the kind of weight that didn’t ask for anything in return, only presence.

Which, lucky for her, he had in spades.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward—slow, genuine. Not a smirk, not a grin. Just something real.

“You’re kind of impossible to look away from when you talk like that,” he said simply, voice low but amused. “Y’know that?”

He leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the back of the booth now, not as a power move but because he could feel himself relaxing around her in a way he hadn’t expected to tonight. She didn’t rush her sentences. Didn’t chase the silence. It made staying feel less like a decision and more like the natural conclusion to everything else.

His gaze followed hers toward the jukebox for a beat, the hint of movement catching the light just enough to shift the room’s energy. When he looked back, it was with that same quiet charm—easy, unbothered, but anchored.

“I don’t usually do this either,” he offered, echoing her with a soft lift of his brow. “Not the staying part. Not the... whatever this is.”

His hand brushed the table once, fingers trailing near hers but not forcing contact. Just close. Comfortable.

“But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been wanting to ask you.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes catching hers with that patient kind of amusement that didn’t need to sell itself.

“So yeah,” he said. “I’d really like to dance with you.”

Miles didn’t get up immediately. He let the invitation breathe for another second, like she had. Like they were moving at the same frequency, unhurried, aligned.

Then he slid out of the booth, standing tall and offering his hand out to her—not across the table, not rushed, just simply there. Open palm, warm eyes, quiet question already answered.

And when she took it?

He held it like it meant something.

Not everything. Not yet.

But enough.

He walked with her to the open space near the jukebox, the music slow and low around them, just enough to guide. And when they stopped, he didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, eyes checking hers once for permission, then gently, respectfully wrapped his arms around her—one hand settling at the small of her back, the other keeping hers steady in his.

Nothing flashy. Nothing forced.

Just two people choosing the same moment at the same time.

And for Miles?

That was more than enough.

Declan laughed low when she clocked him—no denial, no backpedaling. Just that easy, unbothered confidence that came from being exactly where he meant to be.

He slid one hand to her waist again, fingers settling like they’d always belonged there, and dipped his head just enough to meet her eyes.

“Forgot?” he repeated, voice smooth, amused. “Darlin’, I don’t forget things that matter.”

He guided her through another slow turn, unhurried, letting her come back to him at her own pace. When she did, he didn’t pull her closer right away—just let the space linger for half a beat longer than expected.

Cocky. Intentional.

“I knew Ava’d be fine,” he went on, glancing briefly toward the booth before looking back at Hattie, mouth tipping into that knowing half-smile. “And I knew you’d dance if I gave you a reason.”

His thumb traced a small, lazy arc at her side, just enough to remind her he was there. Steady. Certain.

“So yeah,” he said quietly, leaning in, “I might’ve shown up prepared.”

Another beat of the music passed. Then he added, softer but no less sure:

“And if my favorite girl wants more than two songs? I’m not about to stand in the way of that.”

He spun her again—clean, controlled, confident—and caught her easily when she came back, arm firm around her back this time.

“Take all the time you want,” he murmured, forehead brushing hers. “I’ve got nowhere better to be.”

His smile widened, cocky and proud and completely hers.

“Besides,” he added, voice warm with promise, “I look damn good keepin’ up with you.”

Declan didn’t slow her down.

That was the thing—he never tried to.

He matched her instead, step for step, letting the music do what it was going to do while he kept one steady hand at her waist like an anchor she could orbit around. His grin stayed easy, a little wicked, like he was enjoying every second of the attention she didn’t even realize she was pulling.

“You know,” he said over the beat, leaning in close enough that only she could hear him, “I’ve been accused of a lotta things.”

He rolled his shoulder once, casual, guiding her through a turn without breaking eye contact.

“Planning ahead? Guilty,” he added. “Showing up where I’m wanted? Absolutely.”

She came back into him, and this time he didn’t give her space. His hand slid higher, firm at her back, proud in a way that wasn’t loud—but undeniable.

“But manipulative?” he went on, mock-considering. “Nah. I just know what I like.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again, slow and deliberate.

“And I like you right here. Smiling like that. Moving like you’ve got nowhere else to be.”

He shifted them slightly, just enough to keep her from bumping into another couple, protective without making a show of it. The room adjusted around them again—people passing, glancing, then looking away. Not because they were hidden.

Because they were obvious.

Declan dipped his head, brushing his mouth near her ear.

“Tell you what,” he said, voice warm with confidence. “I’ll give you one more song.”

A beat.

“Not because I’m done,” he clarified with a grin she could feel. “But because I like knowing exactly how impatient you’re gonna be when it ends.”

He spun her once more—clean, smooth—and caught her easily, hand firm, smile unapologetic.

“Enjoy it,” he murmured. “I sure as hell am.”

Ava felt the words land before she decided what to do with them. Impossible to look away. Not said for effect. Not sharpened into a line. Just offered, plain and sincere.

She smiled — slow, a little incredulous — and shook her head once, like she was calling him on something gently instead of deflecting it.

“When I talk like… what?” she asked, voice soft, curious rather than defensive. “I’m not doing anything special.”

Her fingers tightened just a touch in his hand as he helped her up from the booth, grounding herself in the warmth of it as they moved together. She didn’t rush. Didn’t pull ahead. Let the walk be part of it.

But when they reached the open space and he drew closer, she looked up at him again, eyes steady, open.

“I’m really glad you don’t want to look away,” she said quietly. “Because I haven’t wanted to either.”

Not dramatic. Not heavy. Just honest.

As his hand settled at her back, Ava let herself step fully into the space between them, one hand resting lightly at his shoulder, the other still held in his. She checked his face once — not for permission exactly, more like confirmation — then relaxed into the rhythm they were finding together.

“This feels…” she searched for the word, then smiled when she found it, “…easy.”

Her voice stayed low, meant just for him.

“And that usually makes me nervous,” she admitted, the honesty unspooling before she could overthink it. “When things feel easy, I’m always waiting for the bottom to drop out. Like it’s going to fall apart as fast as it came together.”

She exhaled softly, forehead tipping just a fraction closer to his.

“But this doesn’t feel like that,” she continued. “It doesn’t feel flimsy. It feels… steady. Like it’s allowed to exist without rushing toward an ending.”

Her grip at his shoulder tightened slightly, not from tension, but from anchoring herself in the moment.

“So yeah,” she said, a small smile returning, warmer now. “I don’t usually trust easy.”

A beat.

“But tonight, I think I do.”

She stayed there with him, letting the music and the closeness carry the rest — not looking for what might break, not bracing for the fall.

Just choosing, for once, to believe that something could be simple and real at the same time.

Ava shifted closer without thinking about it, the movement instinctive, like her body had already decided before her mind caught up. Her free hand slid from his shoulder, then the other followed, slow and deliberate, until her arms rested loosely around his neck.

Not clinging.
Not claiming.
Just… there.

She let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her forehead hovering close to his for a second before she spoke again.

“I don’t do this when I’m unsure,” she said softly, voice steady but unguarded. “I pull back. I overthink. I make excuses.”

Her fingers settled lightly at the nape of his neck, thumbs brushing absentmindedly, grounding herself in the warmth of him.

“So if I’m here,” she continued, a small smile in her voice even if he couldn’t quite see it, “it’s because something about this feels safe enough to stay inside.”

She shifted with the music, slow and unhurried, letting their bodies find a rhythm that didn’t ask to be impressive.

“And I know I just said easy usually scares me,” she added, quieter now, almost a confession, “but this kind of easy feels earned. Like it didn’t skip any steps.”

Her cheek brushed his for a moment as she moved, familiar already in a way that surprised her.

“I don’t need to know where this goes,” Ava said. “I just need to know it’s real right now.”

Her arms stayed where they were, relaxed but certain, as she let herself settle fully into the dance — into him — choosing, again, not to rush, not to look for the fall.

Just to stay.

Hattie didn’t roll her eyes.
Didn’t scoff.
Didn’t call him out the way she might’ve six months ago, before loving him had softened some edges and sharpened others.

Instead, she laughed—quiet and breathy, the sound caught somewhere between her chest and her smile—and let her forehead rest against his for a moment longer than the music required.

“That’s not what gets me,” she said softly, voice warm, threaded with something unmistakably sincere. “The planning. The showing up.”

Her hands slid up his arms, settling at his shoulders like they knew exactly where to land. Like they’d done it a thousand times before and planned on doing it a thousand more.

“It’s knowing you think about me,” she continued, eyes lifting to his. “When I’m not right in front of you. Knowing I cross your mind in the middle of your day. That you put effort into this—into us—without needing a reason other than wanting to.”

That—that—was the thing that made her chest feel full in a way the music and the buzz never could.

She shifted with him as the beat changed, letting her body fall back into the rhythm they’d found together, letting the warmth of him stay constant even as she moved. She smiled up at him then, softer now, less teasing, more open.

“I love that,” she said plainly. No jokes. No deflection. Just truth. “I love knowing I matter enough to be considered.”

Her thumb brushed the edge of his collarbone, slow and familiar, before she let herself spin again—loose, laughing, hair catching the light—only to come right back into him, hands sliding easily back into place.

“And don’t worry,” she added lightly, grin returning, eyes bright with that buzzed confidence she wore so well. “I’m still gonna dance circles around you.”

She leaned in, lips close to his ear this time, smile audible in her voice.

“But I like that you’re always right there in the middle of it with me.”

The song carried them on, bodies moving together without effort, and Hattie let herself sink into it—into him—knowing she wasn’t being chased or managed or maneuvered.

She was being chosen.

And that felt better than any master plan ever could.