#slow dance

Dinner, as it turned out, was not safer.

You had hoped it might be. Naively, maybe. But you had thought sitting down would help. There would be plates. Napkins. Silverware. Speeches. A seating chart. Structure. John loved structure. You could survive structure. Except table seven had still been designed by people who wanted you dead. Not literally, probably.

Emotionally, yes.

Aunt Lisa had seated you directly beside John, which meant you had John on your right, warm and calm and still wearing the tie that had caused half your problems, and an empty chair on your left occupied by a cousin’s husband who kept leaving to find the bar.

Your mother was two tables away, pretending not to look over every thirty seconds. Your grandmother had already waved at John twice. And Kasey, despite being seated with the wedding party, had somehow found time to walk past your table three separate times with the subtlety of a fire alarm.

John, unfortunately, was handling all of this with the composed patience of a man who had never once considered that your family might be the thing that finally killed him.

You sat down and looked at your place setting. “This is hostile architecture.”

John unfolded his napkin beside you. “The chair?”

“The seating chart,” you said.

He glanced down at the table number. “Seven?”

“Don’t say it like a number,” you said.

John looked at you. “It is a number.”

“It is a trap,” you said.

His mouth barely moved. “Dual purpose.”

You looked at the place cards in front of you. Your name. John Shen. Side by side. Like a threat.

You picked up your water glass. “Aunt Lisa believes in psychological warfare.”

John adjusted his silverware by half an inch. “The table is well organized.”

You closed your eyes. “Of course that’s your takeaway.”

From behind your chair, Kasey’s voice appeared like a curse. “Do you see why we like him?”

You startled and twisted around. “Why are you here?”

Kasey smiled sweetly, holding a champagne flute in one hand and a stack of folded place cards in the other. “Wedding-party duties.”

“You are haunting me,” you said.

“I contain multitudes,” Kasey said.

John glanced at the place cards. “Important contribution.”

You pointed at him without looking. “Do not validate her.”

“I’m acknowledging labor,” John said.

Kasey pressed a hand to her chest. “Thank you, John.”

You looked between them. “Absolutely not. I’m separating you two.”

John looked down at the table. “That may be difficult.”

You followed his gaze to your place cards. Your stomach did something deeply inconvenient.

Kasey took a very satisfied sip of champagne. “Mom believes in assigned seating.”

“Your mom believes in war crimes,” you said.

Kasey leaned closer to John. “She gets dramatic when she’s happy.”

You snapped, “I am not happy.”

John’s gaze slid to your face. For one small second, the noise of the reception softened around you. Then he said, “Current evidence is inconclusive.”

Kasey made a tiny noise. You turned on her immediately. “No.”

Kasey lifted both hands, careful not to drop the place cards. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound,” you said.

“A supportive sound,” Kasey said.

John reached for his water. “There are worse sounds.”

You pointed at him again. “You are not helping.”

His mouth twitched. Kasey’s eyes bounced between you and John, delighted. Then someone at the head table called her name.

Kasey sighed. “Duty calls.”

You gave her a bright, false smile. “Go do it.”

Kasey pointed between you. “This is not over.”

John nodded gravely. “Understood.”

You stared at him. “Do not help her.”

Kasey grinned as she backed away. “See? He respects my work.”

Then she disappeared toward the head table, leaving you alone beside John and the terrible knowledge that even assigned seating could not protect you. Aunt Lisa passed behind John’s chair on her way to the head table, moving with purpose, clipboard now tucked under one arm like a retired weapon she could redeploy at any moment.

She paused just long enough to touch the back of your chair. “Eat something before the speeches.”

You looked up at her. “Aunt Lisa.”

Her eyes moved to John. “John.”

John nodded once. “Understood.”

You stared at him. “Do not say understood like you’ve received orders.”

“I did receive orders,” John said.

Aunt Lisa looked pleased. “Thank you.”

“She is not your commanding officer,” you said.

John glanced at Aunt Lisa’s clipboard. “Debatable.”

Aunt Lisa patted your shoulder. “Bread is a good start.”

Then she continued toward Natalie’s table, leaving you with the awful knowledge that John had already reached for the bread basket. You watched him place a roll on your bread plate. Slowly. Deliberately. You stared at it. Then you stared at him.

John adjusted the plate by a fraction of an inch. “Reasonable assignment.”

You leaned closer and lowered your voice. “I cannot believe you are using your medical degree to enforce dinner rolls.”

“Food is medically relevant,” John said.

“You’re enjoying the power,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Moderately.”

A voice behind you whispered, “That was flirting.”

You turned so fast your neck almost cracked. Kasey was standing behind your chair again.

You stared at her. “How are you everywhere?”

Kasey lifted both hands. “Maid of honor.”

“That is not an explanation,” you said.

“It’s a title with broad authority,” Kasey said.

John looked at her. “Historically?”

Kasey nodded. “Very.”

You looked at him. “Do not ask clarifying questions when she’s lurking.”

Kasey smiled. “I love that you’re learning.”

Someone called her name again. Kasey sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’m going.”

“You keep saying that,” you said.

Kasey pointed at John. “Make sure she eats the bread.”

John nodded. “Already in progress.”

You closed your eyes. “This is a nightmare.”

Kasey disappeared again, laughing. You picked up the roll and took a bite purely out of spite. John looked satisfied. That was the worst part. 

Dinner passed in a blur of clinking glasses, soft laughter, and John somehow becoming the safest person at a table full of people actively trying to make you insane. He did not talk too much. That was part of the problem. He listened. He answered questions when asked. He nodded when your grandmother launched into another deeply detailed story about someone’s gallbladder. He leaned closer when you needed to mutter something under your breath and, every single time, he heard you.

At one point, one of your cousin’s husbands, who had finally returned from the bar, asked him how he was enjoying the wedding.

John looked around the room, then back at you.

“It’s well executed,” he said.

You choked on your water. Across the room, Kasey appeared to sense praise of the wedding logistics like a disturbance in the force. Her head snapped toward your table.

“Do not tell Aunt Lisa you said that,” you said.

John picked up his fork. “It’s a strong system.”

“I’m disowning you,” you said.

His eyes warmed, just a little. “That implies prior ownership.”

You froze. John looked down at his plate like he had just discovered the mashed potatoes were medically fascinating. You stared at him. He did not look back.

Coward.

Then the speeches started, and the room softened around you.

Natalie’s father went first. He made everyone laugh within thirty seconds, then made half the room tear up before anyone had emotionally prepared for it. He talked about Natalie as a little girl, about the way she used to make blanket forts in the living room and insist everyone knock before entering because it was “a home, not a hallway.” He talked about the groom showing up to every family cookout with flowers for Natalie and a toolbox for whatever Aunt Lisa had casually mentioned was broken.

Aunt Lisa dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and pretended she was fine. She was not fine. Then Kasey stood as maid of honor, champagne glass in one hand, note cards in the other, and the entire room made a fond, nervous sound.

You leaned toward John. “This could go anywhere.”

John’s gaze stayed on Kasey. “I gathered that.”

Kasey tapped the microphone once. It screeched. She winced. “Aggressive. Okay.”

The room laughed. Kasey looked at Natalie and immediately softened.

“Oh, no,” you whispered.

John glanced at you. “What?”

“She’s going to cry,” you said.

Kasey looked down at her note cards. “I promised myself I would not cry because I have very expensive mascara on, and Natalie already stole all the emotional drama for today by being the bride.”

Natalie laughed and covered her face. Kasey’s voice wobbled anyway. “But she is my sister, so unfortunately, I have loved her my whole life, which is very inconvenient for my cool girl image.”

Your throat tightened. Beside you, John went still. Not rigid. Just quieter somehow. Kasey talked about growing up with Natalie, about shared bedrooms and stolen sweaters and whispered conversations after lights-out. She talked about watching her sister become someone’s safest place, and then finding someone who wanted to be that for her too.

Then Kasey looked at the groom.

“The thing about finding your person,” Kasey said, voice softer now, “is that everyone else usually sees it before you do.”

Your fingers stilled around the stem of your water glass. John’s gaze flicked to you. It was quick. So quick, anyone else might have missed it.

You did not. You looked at him. He looked away one second too late.

Your heartbeat changed.

Kasey kept talking, smiling through tears now. “Because when it’s right, it shows up in all the little places first. In who saves you a seat. Who notices when you’re tired. Who brings you water before you ask. Who looks at you like your happiness is something they get to be grateful for.”

John looked at you again. This time, he did not catch himself fast enough. Your breath caught. He looked away, jaw shifting once, his attention returning to the head table with too much precision.

Oh. Oh, that was not nothing.

You tried to focus on Kasey. You really did. But the rest of her speech blurred around the edges, because John’s hand was resting on the table beside his water glass, close enough that if you moved your fingers half an inch, you would touch him.

You did not. He did not. The space between your hands felt louder than the microphone.

Kasey lifted her glass toward Natalie and her husband. “So here’s to my sister and the person who makes her feel like home. May you always have someone who saves you a seat, steals the covers, and loves you loudly enough that the rest of us can point at it and say, finally.”

Everyone laughed through the softness. Glasses lifted. You lifted yours too. John did the same beside you. Your shoulders brushed. Neither of you moved away.

After the speeches, the DJ invited Natalie and her husband to the dance floor for their first dance. The room shifted into that tender, watchful quiet that only weddings seemed to manage. Natalie stepped into her husband’s arms beneath the warm lights, her dress sweeping softly around her feet, and the whole reception seemed to exhale.

You watched them move together, awkward for half a second before they laughed and found their rhythm. Your chest ached. Not badly. Just enough to be annoying.

John’s voice came quietly beside you. “You okay?”

You looked down at your lap. “You really need a new question.”

“It keeps being relevant,” John said.

You looked up at him. His eyes were on your face, not the dance floor. Of course they were.

You forced a small smile. “I’m okay.”

John held your gaze for one second longer. Then he nodded.

Natalie danced with her father next. Aunt Lisa cried openly this time and stopped pretending. Kasey recorded part of it on her phone while crying hard enough that your mother handed her a tissue from the next table.

You leaned toward John. “Maid of honor down.”

John looked at Kasey, who was wiping under both eyes with a napkin. “Recoverable.”

The mother-son dance followed, soft and sweet, and by the time it ended, the whole room felt warmer and looser around the edges. 

The DJ’s voice came through the speakers. “All right, everyone, let’s open up this dance floor.”

Kasey’s head snapped toward you with immediate purpose. You pointed at her before she could even stand. “No.”

Kasey wiped under one eye. “Yes.”

“I have been through enough,” you said.

Kasey crossed the room with frightening speed. “You have been sitting.”

John looked at your hand when Kasey grabbed it, then at you. “Good luck.”

You stared at him. “That’s all you have to say?”

His mouth barely moved. “Hydrate.”

Kasey tugged you out of your chair. “I love him.”

“You are not allowed,” you said as she dragged you toward the dance floor.

John stayed at the table, one hand around his water glass, watching you go with an expression so calm that anyone else might have believed it. You knew better now. Or you were starting to. Kasey dragged you onto the dance floor as if she had been personally assigned to keep you from thinking too hard.

Honestly, it was almost effective.

The first song was loud and familiar, the kind of early-2000s song that made half the room scream before the beat even dropped. Kasey threw both arms into the air with the abandon of a woman who had already survived her maid-of-honor speech and therefore feared nothing. You laughed despite yourself.

“You are unwell,” you shouted over the music.

Kasey grabbed both your hands and spun you once. “I am free.”

“You cried into a napkin ten minutes ago,” you said.

Kasey pointed at you. “Freedom has layers.”

You laughed again, breathless this time, and let her pull you deeper into the crowd. The dance floor filled quickly. Cousins, friends, aunts who had abandoned their shoes, uncles with questionable rhythm, Natalie’s college friends screaming lyrics into each other’s faces. The lights moved over everyone in soft, colorful sweeps, catching on sequins and champagne glasses and the bright, messy joy of people who had decided to stop caring how they looked.

For a few minutes, you let yourself be part of it.

You danced with Kasey until your cheeks hurt from laughing. You danced with Natalie when she appeared beside you, flushed and glowing, her hair slightly less perfect than it had been during the ceremony and her smile twice as real. You let your mother pull you into a quick, ridiculous spin that nearly took out one of your cousins. You laughed so hard you had to bend over with your hands on your knees when your uncle tried to do a body roll and immediately regretted it.

And every now and then, without meaning to, you looked back at table seven.

John was still there.

Not hiding exactly.

John did not do much accidentally, and he was very good at looking like he was simply observing the room. He sat with one arm resting near his water glass, jacket still buttoned, tie still neat, posture relaxed enough to pass for casual if someone did not know him.

You knew him. You knew the difference between John watching a room and John watching you. He was watching you. Not constantly. Not in a way anyone else would clock right away. He looked away when someone spoke to him. He answered a question from the cousin’s husband beside him. He took a slow sip of water. He glanced toward the DJ when the music shifted.

But his eyes kept finding you again.

Every time they did, something warm and unsteady moved through your chest. Kasey noticed on the third look. Of course she did. She followed your gaze across the room, then turned back to you with a grin so delighted it bordered on illegal.

You pointed at her before she could speak. “No.”

Kasey leaned close so you could hear her over the music. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You inhaled like you were about to,” you said.

Kasey’s smile widened. “He is watching you.”

You looked away from John so quickly it was embarrassing. “He’s sitting at our table.”

“He is not watching the table,” Kasey said.

You grabbed her wrist and pulled her into another spin. “Dance.”

Kasey let herself be spun, laughing. “Avoidance.”

“Movement,” you corrected.

“Romantic avoidance with choreography,” Kasey said.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too hard for it to have any real effect. Another song started. Faster this time. Kasey shrieked because, apparently, it was her song, though, based on her reaction, every song played at this wedding had become hers. Natalie appeared again, dragging two other bridesmaids with her, and suddenly you were folded into a loud, laughing circle of women who all seemed determined to make the dance floor everyone else’s problem.

You danced until your feet started to ache, even in your flats. You danced until your hair stuck slightly to the back of your neck. You danced until the weight in your chest loosened and turned into something bright and breathless.

And through all of it, John kept looking.

Once, when you caught him, he did not look away fast enough. You were mid-laugh, one hand lifted as Kasey shouted lyrics dramatically at you, and John was watching from across the room with that same small, private expression from the photo. Not smiling fully. Not guarded enough. Just warm.

Like seeing you happy had done something to him again.

Your laughter softened. For one second, everything else blurred. Then Kasey bumped her hip into yours. “You’re doing the thing.”

You blinked and looked at her. “What thing?”

Kasey’s eyes sparkled. “Looking at him like you forgot there are witnesses.”

Heat rushed up your neck. “I am sweaty and dehydrated.”

“Very romantic,” Kasey said.

“I’m getting water,” you said.

Kasey lifted both hands. “Sure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I am.”

“I believe in hydration,” Kasey said solemnly.

Your eyes narrowed. “You believe in being a menace.”

“I contain multitudes,” Kasey said.

You left her on the dance floor before she could make it worse.

Crossing back to table seven felt stranger than it should have. Maybe because you were flushed from dancing. Maybe because the music was still loud behind you, but the space near the tables felt dimmer and quieter. Maybe because John watched you approach with the same focused attention he gave everything he cared about and absolutely nothing casual.

You slid into your chair beside him and reached for your water glass. “Do not say anything.”

John looked at you. “About?”

You took a long drink. “Whatever you were about to say.”

“I was going to ask if you were okay,” John said.

You lowered the glass and gave him a look. “You need new material.”

“Possibly,” John said.

You drank more water, grateful for the cold and the excuse not to look at him for a second. John’s gaze moved over your face, quick and assessing. “You’re warm.”

“I was dancing,” you said.

“Yes,” John said.

Something about the way he said it made your fingers tighten around the glass. You looked at him. “What?”

His eyes held yours for half a second too long. “Nothing.”

“No,” you said. “That was a loaded yes.”

John picked up his own water glass. “Can a yes be loaded?”

“Yours can,” you said.

His mouth barely curved. “That sounds like a personal bias.”

“It is,” you said.

The admission came out too quickly. Both of you went still for a second. Then the cousin’s husband dropped into the chair on your other side with two drinks and a loud sigh, completely unaware that he had just saved you from whatever your face was about to do.

“The dance floor is a war zone,” he announced.

You looked down at your water. “It is.”

John’s gaze stayed on you. You could feel it. The cousin’s husband took a sip of his drink and pointed toward the floor. “Your cousin’s terrifying.”

“Kasey?” you asked.

“All of them,” he said.

John nodded once. “Broad but supportable.”

You laughed, and John looked briefly pleased with himself. The cousin’s husband squinted at him. “You dance?”

John’s expression did not change. “In emergencies.”

You nearly choked on your water. “That is not an answer.”

“It is an answer,” John said.

“It is not a good one,” you said.

The cousin’s husband pointed between you. “You should dance with her.”

Your glass paused halfway to the table. John looked at him. You looked at him. 

The cousin’s husband lifted one shoulder, already distracted by someone calling his name from the bar. “Just saying. Wedding.”

Then he got up again and wandered off with one of his drinks, leaving the suggestion behind him like a lit match.

You stared after him. “He has terrible timing.”

John looked toward the dance floor. The music shifted. Not slow yet, but softer at the edges, the kind of song people used to catch their breath without leaving the floor. John turned back to you.

“You want to go back out there?” he asked.

You looked at him. “With Kasey?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “No.” 

Oh.

The room seemed to tilt slightly. You set your water glass down with more care than necessary.

“John,” you said, because apparently that was all your brain had left.

John pushed his chair back and stood. Then he offered you his hand. Not his arm this time. His hand. Your heart did something stupid. John’s expression stayed calm, but his eyes did not quite manage it.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked.

The dance floor glowed behind him. Your family moved around the room in flashes of laughter and color and champagne. Kasey was absolutely watching from somewhere. Your mother probably was too. You looked at John’s hand. Then at his face.

“You know,” you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be, “this is not helping the rumors.”

John’s gaze held yours. “I know,” he said.

The answer was too simple. Too honest. Your pulse gave one hard kick.

“And you’re still asking?” you asked.

His hand stayed between you, steady and patient. “Yes.” 

There were several smart things you could have said. Several safe things.

Instead, you put your hand in his.

John’s fingers closed around yours, warm and careful, and he led you toward the dance floor like this was simple. Like he had not just made your heart try to climb out of your chest. The DJ had shifted into a slow song while you were talking, something warm and romantic with a soft guitar line and lyrics about wanting someone close. The kind of song that changed the shape of the room as soon as it started.

Couples were already drifting together across the dance floor, hands sliding to waists, heads bending close, laughter quieting into murmurs. The faster chaos from a few minutes ago softened around the edges, replaced by swaying bodies and low light. This was not Kasey dragging you into a screaming circle of cousins. This was a slow dance.

With John.

Kasey saw you immediately. She stood near Natalie, still flushed from dancing, a champagne flute in one hand and her heels dangling from the other. Her eyes dropped to your hand in John’s, then snapped back to your face. Her mouth opened.

You pointed at her with your free hand. “No.”

Kasey pressed her lips together, eyes wide with the heroic effort of staying silent. Natalie leaned close to her, said something you could not hear, and then looked toward you and John. Her smile went soft.

You looked away immediately. John noticed. “Kasey?”

“And Natalie,” you said.

His gaze flicked briefly over your shoulder. “Wedding-party surveillance.”

“Family-wide surveillance,” you said.

“Strong infrastructure,” John said.

You shot him a look. “Do not admire them.”

His mouth barely moved. “Too late.”

Then he turned toward you near the edge of the dance floor and released your hand only long enough to settle one palm at your waist. Your breath caught before you could stop it.

John’s gaze lifted immediately. “Okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His hand stayed exactly where it was, light enough to let you move away and steady enough to make you want to lean in. That was becoming a theme. You placed your hand on his shoulder. The fabric of his jacket was smooth beneath your fingers, warm from him beneath it. His other hand found yours again, and then the two of you were moving.

Slowly. Carefully. Not because he was bad at it.

That was the horrible discovery.

John could dance.

Not showy. Not dramatic. Nothing that would draw attention. He just knew where to put his feet. He knew how to lead without pushing. He knew how to adjust to you, how to guide you around another couple without making you feel steered.

You stared at him.

John noticed immediately. “What?”

“You can dance,” you said.

His brows lifted slightly. “This is a low bar.”

You lifted your brows. “You said you only dance in emergencies.”

John’s mouth barely moved. “This may qualify.”

You laughed, and his hand at your waist shifted slightly, not tighter exactly, but more present. Like the sound had moved through him before he could stop it. You felt that. Every tiny thing, apparently. 

The two of you drifted in a slow circle, your dress brushing against his suit pants, your hand still held in his. Around you, couples swayed close, the room quieter now in that strange way wedding receptions got when the music gave everyone permission to be sentimental.

Somewhere near the bar, Kasey was probably fighting for her life. Somewhere across the room, your mother was probably pretending not to watch. You could not make yourself care.

Not right then.

Not with John looking at you like this. Not smiling exactly, but close. His face calm, his eyes warm, his attention so complete it felt like being the only thing in the room he had decided mattered.

“You’re very good at this,” you said.

“Emergency dancing?” John asked.

“Being my date,” you said.

His hand stilled slightly at your waist. 

You smiled because it was easier than admitting how much you meant it. “Honestly, it’s alarming. My family loves you. You remembered my coffee order. You brought breakfast. You matched my dress. You survived Aunt Lisa. You made my grandmother blush. And now you can dance?”

John looked down at you. “Your grandmother was already blushing.”

“John,” you said.

“Possible baseline condition,” John said.

You laughed and shook your head. “I’m serious. You’re making it very hard to convince everyone we’re just friends.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

For half a second, the humor faded.

“Do you want us to be?” John asked.

Your steps faltered. John adjusted immediately, catching the rhythm for both of you without letting it look like anything had happened.

“What?” you asked.

His jaw shifted once, and for the first time all night, he looked like he regretted a sentence before it had fully cooled in the air.

“Nothing,” John said.

“No,” you said softly. “That was not nothing.”

His thumb moved once against your hand. Barely there. Almost nothing. The air between you changed anyway. You became aware of everything at once. The heat of his palm at your waist. The brush of your dress against his legs. The music folding around you. The faint scent of his cologne, clean and subtle under the flowers and champagne and warm reception air.

John’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Only long enough to ruin you.

Your breath caught.

His eyes came back to yours, and whatever careful distance he had been keeping all night seemed suddenly thinner. Not gone. John was too controlled for that. But thinner. Fraying at the edges.

“John,” you said.

His name came out quiet. Too quiet for the dance floor. His hand at your waist flexed once. The two of you were still moving, but barely now, swaying more than dancing, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through his suit. Your hand had slipped a little higher on his shoulder. His fingers had spread slightly at your waist.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth.

It was quick.

It was stupid.

It was also not quick enough.

John’s steps slowed.

Your heart kicked hard once in your chest.

For one suspended second, you thought he was going to lean in.

Then you stopped waiting for him to.

You leaned in first.

Barely.

Just enough for the space between you to change. Just enough that your hand shifted higher on his shoulder and your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and his mouth.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

For one devastating second, he looked like he was going to meet you there.

Then his hand left your waist. Slowly. Carefully. Like it cost him something.

“We should get some air,” John said.

The words landed like cold water.

You blinked. “What?”

His face had gone calm again, but not completely. Not to you.

“Air,” John said.

You stared at him. “Right now?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Yes.”

Your cheeks burned, embarrassment rushing in so fast it almost knocked the breath out of you.

Of course. Of course you had misread it. Of course the wedding and the music and your family’s relentless commentary had gotten into your head. Of course you had leaned too close to your friend on a dance floor because everyone had been treating him like something more all day, and for one humiliating second, you had let yourself believe it.

You pulled your hand from his. “Sure.”

John’s jaw tightened. “That’s not—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly.

His eyes sharpened. “It’s not fine.”

You laughed once, brittle and awful. “Okay, then it’s air. Let’s get air.”

You turned before he could answer, already moving toward the edge of the dance floor because standing there with his hand no longer at your waist felt unbearable.

John followed immediately. Not too close. Never too close.

That somehow made it worse. At the edge of the dance floor, Kasey caught your eye from near the bar. Her eyebrows rose. You widened your eyes in warning. Kasey lifted both hands like she had been caught doing nothing wrong, even though she absolutely had been watching the whole time.

You pushed through the patio doors before she could decide to be helpful. The night air met you cool and soft. Behind you, the reception kept going. Music, laughter, glassware, all of it muffled when the door fell shut behind John.

Outside, everything felt too quiet. Too open. Too embarrassing.

You walked a few steps onto the patio and stopped near the low stone wall, arms wrapping around yourself before you could think better of it. John did not speak immediately. That was worse too.

You looked out at the dark lawn. “You don’t have to do the whole post-incident debrief.”

His voice came from behind you, steady but lower than before. “Post-incident.”

You closed your eyes. “John.”

“Were you going to kiss me?” John asked.

Your eyes opened. You turned around. He stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture controlled in a way you suddenly recognized as restraint.

Not distance. Not rejection. Restraint.

Your face went hot all over again. “That’s a terrible question.”

“It’s a relevant one,” John said.

You stared at him. “You pulled away.”

“I know,” John said.

“So why are you asking?” you said.

His jaw moved once. For the first time all night, he looked almost frustrated. Not with you. With himself.

“Because if I was wrong, I need to know,” John said.

Your breath caught. The patio lights warmed one side of his face. Behind the glass doors, shadows moved across the reception hall, blurred and golden.  You looked at him more carefully.

He was not unbothered. He was not calm. Not really. He was holding himself still because that was what John did when everything in him wanted to move.

“You weren’t wrong,” you said.

His eyes closed for half a second. When they opened again, something in them had changed. Not relief exactly. Something more dangerous.

“Okay,” John said quietly.

You swallowed. “Okay?”

He looked at you. “I had to ask.”

“Why?” you asked.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Because I wanted you to.”

The words hit so directly that you forgot how to breathe. John looked down at the stone beneath his shoes, then back at you.

“And that is exactly why I pulled away,” he said.

Your chest tightened. You let your arms fall from around yourself. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” John said.

You shook your head. “No, I really don’t.”

John exhaled once through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Your family has been treating me like I’m your boyfriend for six hours.”

“They have,” you said.

“It’s a wedding,” John said.

You sighed, “I noticed.”

“There’s music,” John said.

You nodded. “Yes.” 

“Soft lighting,” John continued.

You stared at him. “Are you listing environmental factors?”

“Yes,” John said.

“Oh my God,” you said.

His mouth barely moved, but his eyes were serious. “I’m making a point.”

“You’re making a chart,” you said.

“I’m avoiding a bad decision,” John said.

The words stung before you could stop them. You stepped back half a pace. “Kissing me would be a bad decision?”

John’s expression changed immediately. “No,” he said.

The answer came fast. Too fast to be casual.

“No,” John said again, quieter. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” you asked.

For a second, he said nothing. The reception music thumped softly behind the doors. Somewhere inside, people cheered at the end of a song. John looked at you like the answer was going to cost him.

“I meant that kissing you because of tonight would be a bad decision,” John said.

Your breath caught. He held your gaze.

“Kissing you because your family likes me, because the dress and tie matched, because we’ve been standing too close in every photo, because this is romantic and temporary and outside normal life,” John said. “That would be a bad decision.”

You stared at him, heart hammering.

“And kissing me for any other reason?” you asked.

His hands stayed in his pockets. For one second, he said nothing. Then his voice went quieter.

“That’s something I’ve wanted to do since the moment I met you,” John said.

The night air moved over your bare shoulders, but you barely felt it. You looked at him, at the careful line of his body, at the restraint he was wearing like armor. All day, your family had called him calm. Unflappable. Sensible. Steady.

They had not seen this. They had not seen how much effort his stillness took.

“The moment you met me?” you asked.

John’s mouth barely moved. “Inconveniently early, yes.”

Your breath left you in something that was almost a laugh.

“You never said anything,” you said.

“I know,” John said.

“Why?” you asked.

His answer came quietly. “Because you’re my friend.”

That hurt more than you expected. Not because it was wrong. Because it was him. Careful. Practical. Controlled. Even with his own heart.

John looked past you for half a second, then back at your face. “You trust me. I didn’t want you wondering if every coffee, every ride home, every time I checked on you after a bad scan had a price attached to it.”

Your throat tightened.

“They didn’t,” John said. “For the record.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“I wanted you,” John said, voice lower now. “But I wasn’t doing those things to get you.”

The words landed with terrifying precision. You stepped closer before you could talk yourself out of it. John’s gaze dropped briefly to the space between you.

“You’re worried I’m only feeling this because of tonight,” you said.

“Yes,” John said.

You nodded slowly. “And if I am?”

His face stayed calm, but his voice roughened at the edge. “Then I’d rather not be the thing you regret tomorrow.”

There it was. Not rejection. Fear. Careful, controlled, deeply John fear. Your throat tightened.

“John,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Yeah?”

You looked at him. “You are very stupid for someone this smart.”

He blinked. Then his brows lifted. “That is not where I thought this was going.”

You stepped closer again. “I have wanted to kiss you in significantly less romantic conditions than this.”

John went still. Completely still.  You kept going before you could lose your nerve.

“I wanted to kiss you in your car two months ago when you drove me home after that awful OB call and let me pick the music even though you hate when people mess with your playlists,” you said.

His lips parted slightly. You took another step.

“I wanted to kiss you in the ultrasound hallway when you brought me coffee and pretended you were already going that way, even though Dunkin’ is fully in the opposite direction,” you said.

John’s expression shifted. Barely. But you saw it.

“I wanted to kiss you in the hotel room when you clasped my necklace,” you said. “And I wanted to kiss you during pictures when you made me laugh. And I wanted to kiss you on the dance floor because it was you. Not because of the wedding.”

The quiet after that felt enormous. John stared at you. For once, he did not have an answer ready.

You folded your arms again, mostly to keep your hands from shaking. “So, for the record, this is not an acute onset wedding-related condition.”

His mouth moved. Nothing came out. A strange, giddy thrill moved through you.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Did I break you?”

John blinked once. Then he said, “Temporarily.”

You laughed, nervous and breathless and wildly relieved. His expression softened at the sound, and there it was again: the look from the photo, the one you had not been able to stop thinking about. Warm. Private. Like your happiness had done something to him.

John stepped closer this time. Not all the way. Still careful. Always careful.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

You shook your head, smiling. “John.”

“I have to ask,” John said.

“I know,” you said.

His gaze held yours. “Are you sure?”

You reached for his tie, fingers brushing the little rose-colored flowers that matched your dress, and tugged him just one careful inch closer.

“I’m sure,” you said.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. This time, he did not pull away.

“Good,” John said.

It was barely a word.

Then his hand came to your jaw, warm and careful and no longer distant, and he kissed you.

Softly, at first. So softly that for one impossible second, you could feel all the waiting inside it. Every coffee left beside your machine. Every ride home after a bad shift. Every dry comment made because sympathy would have been too much. Every song on a playlist he had pretended was only for driving. Every time he had asked if you were okay and meant something more than the words could hold.

It was all there.

In the careful press of his mouth to yours. In the way his thumb brushed your cheek. In the way he held still long enough to let you choose it too.

And you did.

You stepped closer, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket, and the kiss changed. Not rough. Not rushed.

Certain.

Like something had finally clicked into place after years of being one breath, one bad shift, one almost-too-long look away from happening. John made a quiet sound against your mouth, low enough that you felt it more than heard it, and his hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck. His other hand found your waist again, right where it had been on the dance floor, but this time there was no pretending it was for a picture. No family around you. No photographer. No matching-tie excuse.

Just him. Just you. Just the sudden, dizzying truth that kissing John did not feel new.

It felt inevitable.

Like your body had been learning the shape of him in pieces all day: his arm under your hand, his fingers at your necklace, his palm at your waist, his shoulder beneath your touch. Like every small contact had been a sentence you were only now reading all the way through.

The patio lights blurred warm behind your closed eyes. The music inside softened to a pulse through the doors. Somewhere beyond the glass, your family was still laughing, still dancing, still convinced they knew something before you did.

For once, they were right.

John kissed you deeper, still controlled, still careful, but no longer distant. The kind of kiss that did not ask for attention because it had yours completely. The kind that made the world narrow to his hand at your neck, your fingers in his jacket, the brush of his breath when he tilted his head and kissed you again.

You forgot to be embarrassed. You forgot the dance floor. You forgot the open bar, the soft lighting, the environmental factors he had been so determined to list like evidence.

There was no evidence. There was only John.

And then, impossibly, the quiet man who had spent years not asking for more kissed you like he understood exactly what he had been given.

Your chest ached with it.

You rose onto your toes without thinking, and John’s arm came around your waist, steadying you, drawing you in that last impossible inch until there was no space left to misunderstand.

The kiss slowed before it ended. That was the thing that ruined you. He did not pull away all at once. He eased back like leaving was something he had to make himself do. His mouth brushed yours once more, softer than before, and then his forehead hovered close to yours, his breath unsteady against your cheek.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

You were not sure either of you could.

Inside, the reception cheered at something you could not see.

You laughed under your breath, dazed and shaky. “They’re going to think they were right.”

John’s thumb moved once along your jaw. His eyes opened. They were close enough that you could see exactly how warm they were.

“They were,” John said.

The words settled between you, simple and devastating. Your heart turned over. Then you laughed again, softer this time, and John’s mouth curved like the sound had done something to him. He looked at you like he had looked at you in the photo. Like your happiness was something he got to be grateful for.

Only this time, when he leaned in again, you met him halfway.

The second kiss was shorter.

Not because either of you wanted it to be. Because at some point, oxygen became a practical concern. John eased back with his hand still at your jaw, his thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone like he had forgotten it was allowed to leave. His forehead hovered near yours, close enough that you could feel the unevenness of his breath.

That did something to you. John Shen, unsteady. Because of you.

“Oh,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, small and almost helpless. “Yeah.”

You laughed softly, mostly because there was nowhere else for the feeling to go.

John’s eyes moved over your face. “You okay?”

The question was so familiar that it should not have made your chest ache. It did anyway.

You looked up at him. “You really need a new question.”

John’s thumb brushed once beneath your cheekbone. “I’ll workshop it.”

You stared at him. “You just kissed me like that and you want to workshop?”

His voice dropped. “I can multitask.”

Your stomach dipped. You stared at him. “That was flirting.”

John’s mouth barely moved. “Primarily.”

A laugh broke out of you, too bright and too giddy for the quiet patio, and John looked at you like the sound landed somewhere he had no defense against.

Then the patio door opened. Of course it did. Warm light and music spilled out behind you, and Kasey poked her head through the doorway with the cautious expression of someone who had already decided to be intrusive and was only pretending to regret it.

Her eyes found you first. Then John. Then John’s hand still resting at your jaw. Then your hand still fisted in the front of his jacket. Kasey’s mouth fell open.

You dropped your hand from John’s jacket. “No.”

Kasey pointed at you. “I didn’t say anything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You breathed.”

Kasey pressed one hand to her chest. “I need to do that to live.”

John’s hand slipped from your jaw, but his fingers found yours immediately, like he had no interest in pretending anymore. Kasey’s eyes dropped to your joined hands. Her face changed. Not just triumphant. Softer than that.

“Oh,” Kasey said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not make that sound.”

Kasey pressed one hand to her chest. “I am being so normal.”

You looked pointedly at her face. “You are absolutely not.”

Kasey looked at John. “Was she threatening you again?”

John’s expression had returned to something close to normal, but his hand stayed wrapped around yours. “Yes.”

You turned to him. “Do not help her.”

John glanced at you. “I’m answering accurately.”

Kasey made a delighted noise. You pointed at her with your free hand. “No noises either.”

Kasey nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “Understood.”

John glanced at her. “Questionable.”

You looked at him. “You are not allowed to team up with my maid-of-honor cousin immediately after kissing me.”

Kasey’s face lit up. You froze. John looked at you. Your whole body went hot.

Kasey whispered, “After kissing you?”

You closed your eyes. “I hate myself.”

John’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I don’t,” he said.

Your eyes opened. Kasey’s face went through approximately seven emotions.

“Oh my God,” Kasey said.

You looked at her. “Kasey.”

She lifted both hands. “Right. Sorry. Normal. I am normal. I just came out here because my mom is asking where you are, and I did not want her to come investigate because she has mom eyes and no boundaries.”

John nodded once. “Appreciated.”

Kasey pointed at him. “You. I like you.”

You sighed. “Yes. We’ve established that.”

Kasey looked between you again, her smile going wicked around the edges. “So are we going back inside, or are you two going to keep having a cinematic patio moment?”

You stared at her. “You are the worst.”

Kasey lifted her chin. “I’m the maid of honor. I contain logistical authority.”

John looked at you. “She does seem to have broad authority.”

You tugged lightly on his hand. “Do not encourage governmental overreach.”

His mouth twitched. “Noted.”

Kasey backed toward the doorway, still grinning. “Take your time. But not too much time. Mom is emotionally unstable, Natalie wants a group picture later, and if you come back in looking like that, everyone is going to know.”

You lifted your chin. “Looking like what?”

Kasey’s grin softened.

“Happy,” she said.

The word landed harder than you expected. Then she disappeared back inside, leaving the door to fall shut behind her. For a second, neither of you moved. The music thumped softly through the glass. Your hand was still in John’s.

You looked down at your joined fingers, then up at him. “Everyone is going to know.”

John’s gaze stayed on your face. “Probably.”

You searched his expression. “You’re very calm about that.”

“I’m not,” John said.

Your breath caught. His thumb moved once over your knuckles.

“I’m just done pretending that I want them to be wrong,” John said.

Your chest went soft and bright and ridiculous.

“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered.

John looked at you, eyes warm. “Still true.”

You laughed under your breath. “You are such a problem.”

His mouth curved. “Emerging pattern.”

You looked back toward the reception doors. “Do we have to go back in?”

John followed your gaze. “Eventually.”

You looked back at him. “Eventually as in now?”

He glanced toward the door, then back at you.

“No,” John said.

Then he leaned in and kissed you again. Just once. Slow and sweet and devastatingly gentle. When he pulled back, your fingers had tightened around his.

You blinked up at him. “Now?”

John’s eyes stayed on your mouth for half a second before returning to yours. “Now.”

You took a breath. Then another. 

Going back inside should not have felt like reentering a different wedding.

It was the same room.

Same music. Same lights. Same tables half-abandoned now that most of the guests had found the dance floor. Same Aunt Lisa near the head table with her shoes off and her clipboard nowhere in sight, which should have been more alarming than it was.

But John’s hand was in yours.

So nothing felt the same.

You made it three steps before Kasey saw you.

Obviously.

Her entire face lit up from across the room.

You pointed at her immediately. Kasey turned to Natalie and whispered something. Natalie looked over. Your mother looked over. Aunt Lisa looked over.

You closed your eyes. “That lasted four seconds.”

John’s voice was low beside you. “Generous estimate.”

You laughed despite yourself, and his hand squeezed yours once.

Not hidden. Not performative. Just there. That made it worse.

Or better.

Possibly both.

You opened your eyes and kept walking because stopping would only make your family more powerful. John stayed beside you, calm and warm and infuriatingly steady, like he had not just kissed you on a patio and rearranged several major facts about your life.

Near the edge of the dance floor, Kasey intercepted you with the focused urgency of a woman abandoning multiple maid-of-honor responsibilities.

You looked at her. “No.”

Kasey held up both hands. “I have not said a word.”

“You left your sister,” you said.

Kasey glanced over her shoulder. “Natalie is dancing with her husband. She’ll survive.”

Natalie waved from the dance floor without looking particularly concerned. Kasey turned back to you and John. Her eyes dropped to your joined hands. Her mouth pressed together.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

Kasey made a small, strangled sound.

John looked at her. “That seems medically concerning.”

Kasey pointed at him. “Do not be funny right now. I cannot handle liking you more.”

You looked at John. “See what you’ve done?”

John’s mouth barely moved. “I’ve created a difficult situation.”

“For me,” you said.

“For all of us,” Kasey said, still staring at your hands.

You sighed. “Kasey.”

Her expression softened so suddenly that it caught you off guard. “I’m happy for you.”

The words landed gentler than you expected. You blinked. “Oh.”

Kasey’s smile wobbled around the edges. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird,” you said, but your voice had gone softer too.

Kasey looked at John. “You better be good to her.”

John’s face changed. Barely. But enough.

His hand tightened around yours. “I intend to be.”

Your chest went painfully warm. Kasey stared at him for half a second.

Then she pointed at you. “Okay. Keep him.”

You laughed. “Thank you for your blessing.”

Kasey nodded solemnly. “It was earned.”

Someone shouted Kasey’s name from near the dance floor.

Kasey closed her eyes. “Maid of honor is a prison.”

John nodded once. “Broad authority. Significant burden.”

Kasey opened her eyes and pointed at him again. “Exactly.”

You tugged lightly on John’s hand. “Stop bonding with her.”

“Too late,” Kasey said.

Then she backed away, still smiling like she was going to explode if left unsupervised for too long. You watched her disappear into the crowd before you exhaled.

John looked down at you. “You okay?”

You gave him a look.

His mouth twitched. “Right. New question.”

You nodded once. “Please.”

John’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles. “Do you want water?”

You stared at him. He stared calmly back.

“That is your new romantic question?” you asked.

“Hydration remains relevant,” John said.

You laughed, and his eyes warmed at the sound.

“Fine,” you said. “Water.”

He led you back toward table seven, still holding your hand, and the simplicity of it made your chest ache more than the kiss had.

At the table, your water glass was exactly where you had left it. Your napkin was crumpled beside your plate. The bread roll you had spite-eaten was gone. John’s jacket sleeve brushed yours as you sat.

He did not let go of your hand right away.

Neither did you.

For a minute, you just sat there with your fingers threaded together under the edge of the table, hidden from most of the room but not from yourselves.

The DJ shifted into another upbeat song. People cheered. Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. Natalie spun past in a flash of white and joy.

You looked down at your joined hands. Then you looked at John.

“So,” you said.

John looked at you. “So.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile too hard. “That happened.”

“Yes,” John said.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, “You’re very calm.” 

“No,” John said.

Your smile faltered.

His gaze stayed on yours, steady and warm. “I’m just very motivated not to embarrass myself in front of your family.”

You laughed quietly. “How’s that going?”

John glanced toward Kasey, who was absolutely pretending not to watch from the dance floor.

“Poorly,” he said.

You laughed again, and he looked down at your mouth before he could stop himself. Your whole body noticed. His thumb moved once over the back of your hand.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “You know, you can look at me now.”

His eyes returned to yours.

“I was looking at you before,” John said.

Your breath caught. The music, the room, the reception noise all seemed to soften around the edges.

You swallowed. “I know.”

His gaze held yours.

Then your mother appeared beside the table with the expression of a woman trying very hard to be casual and failing beautifully.

You straightened. “Mom.”

Your mother looked at your joined hands under the table. Then she looked at your face. Then at John.

Her smile went soft. “Hi.”

You closed your eyes. “Please don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” your mother said.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying right before they say something,” you said.

John stood politely. “Can I get you anything?”

Your mother looked immediately delighted. “Oh, no, honey, sit.”

You looked at him. “Do not honey him. He’ll think he’s safe here.”

John sat back down, mouth twitching.

Your mother touched your shoulder. “Natalie wants a few group photos before too many people disappear.”

You looked toward the dance floor. “Now?”

“In a little bit,” your mother said. Her eyes flicked to your hand in John’s. “No rush.”

You stared at her. She smiled. Then she walked away.

You turned to John. “This family is going to kill me.”

John looked after your mother, then back at you. “They seem pleased.”

“That’s the dangerous part,” you said.

His hand squeezed yours once. “I’m not opposed.”

You looked at him quickly. His expression stayed calm. But his ears were just slightly pink..

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

John noticed and looked away toward his water glass like it was suddenly urgent.

You leaned closer. “Are you blushing?”

“No,” John said.

You leaned closer. “You are.”

“I’m warm,” John said.

You smiled. “John.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“You don’t get to kiss me like that and then lie badly,” you said.

His mouth curved. “Fair.”

A giddy little laugh escaped you.

John looked back at you, and the warmth in his eyes made your chest go soft all over again. The DJ shifted to a slower song, but not as intimate as the first. Couples started pulling each other back toward the floor.

You glanced toward the music.

John followed your gaze. “Again?”

You looked at him. “You want to?”

“Yes,” John said.

The answer was immediate. Simple. Your fingers tightened around his.

“Okay,” you said.

This time, when he led you back to the dance floor, you did not look at Kasey.

You did not look at your mother.

You did not look at Aunt Lisa.

Juliette had been deemed the diamond of the season a few years back, and although you no longer shared a last name, you were as close as ever. 

Amy presented herself as rather indifferent to it all, dealing with her narrowing chances of marriage like a trooper, but you could tell there was some panic in her actions. It seemed she did not want you to suffer the same fate. Still, although you could understand her, you secretly hoped you'd suffer her fate over Juliette's, because being the Diamond seemed more hassle than it was worth.

“I’ve been doing my research, and it seems that there are plenty of eligible bachelors this season, namely a few newer ones, who are more about your age. Lord Bearman, Oliver, seems like a good chap. As does that Italian one, with that rather frivolous last name. Oh, and Isack, of course. Lord Hadjar.” Juliette corrects herself, smoothing her dress, and you shoot her a wary glance.

“I’ll take that into consideration. Not Isack though, obviously.” you reply sweetly, and she shakes her head.

“It would do you some good to respect him, you know. You aren’t bickering children anymore- you must come across as mature, and graceful.”

You inhale.

“I am both of those things, I assure you. As long as he stays out of my way, and he doesn’t provoke me as usual, then we shall be just fine. I will even accept a dance, if he decides to be so daring.” you mutter quietly, and both your sisters beam.

When Isack’s mother fell ill, your own family had almost adopted him, as if it was of no consequence. At first, it had not really bothered you. But soon, he had grown to become rather an annoyance. He was sharp; you were sharper. Your arguments could span anywhere from mere minutes to days, and his impertinence had never been lost on you.

He had treated you in a way that you could not call brotherly. It was more like he was testing you, constantly. With moments of genuinity, and friendship, before total annoyance and disrespect. You never understood it, nor him.

And that had been the way of the world, until his mother got better, and then he left as if he had never been there to begin with.

“Excellent. Now, let us go.” Juliette smiles, seemingly satisfied with your appearance.

The nerves only really start to pool in your gut as you position yourself behind the doors, waiting for the announcement of your name. You’d seen ten-or-so other nervous ladies, pale in the face, disappear. And now it was you, and only two others and all three of you seemed as though you’d forgotten how to breathe.

“I think I might pass out. In a sickly way.” one of them hisses, and you turn to her with a gentle smile.

“We’re going to be fine, I’m certain of it.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Both your sisters did well. I have no-one.” 

You’re slightly surprised that she knows who you are, considering her name is still evading you, but you almost remind her that Amy still didn’t have a husband. Instead, you smile a little wider, waving her nerves away with a generous hand.

“Well, you’re utterly beautiful. As long as you aim not to trip, I can’t see how anything could go wrong.” you reply confidently, and you see a small curve in her lips.

“She’s right, Maria. I’m rather envious of you. You’re certain to be the diamond. Or she’ll at least say something to you. I rather think she’d hope to forget whatever sort of entrance I make.” Beatrice mumbles, and you pat her shoulder affectionately.

“‘Tis alright, Beatrice.”

She gives you a grateful nod, but your hand is clammy, and you feel a little like a fraud.

When you hear your name, you falter, but step through the doors nonetheless.

“Smile, dear.” your mother says quietly, and you plaster the most lady-like expression you can manage as you begin to walk, ignoring the strange tugging at the trail of your dress.

The stretch to the Queen’s throne feels endless. You’re rather convinced it’s simply to humiliate even the most co-ordinated of you, and each careful step feels more like a taunt than any sort of progress. Still, you don’t hesitate.

The Queen does not smile when you reach her. You almost expected her to. Instead, you bow, praying your headpiece doesn’t slip, and stare politely at her shoes.

“You can look at me, child.” she scolds, but if there is any real malice in her tone, you don’t pick up on it. Instead, you give her a bashful grin, and she seems placated. 

She admires you with a care that makes you feel rather like a gem in a glass box, each sharp edge being analysed, but you desperately try not to break a sweat, forcing quiet breaths through your nose.

You hope she’ll grow bored of you soon enough, and move onto the next victim, but she pauses, raising an arm.

You think you might explode. You’re certain that if she keeps you here for a moment longer, you simply will not manage to keep calm under the pressure, and you'll end up splattered across the room. You wait, for her to shun you from society, or declare you ought to have your head cut off, and you give your mother a completely panicked glance, still half-bowed.

“I think she’s the right choice.”

You splutter, words spilling from your mouth before you can help it.

“I don’t think so. I mean, you haven’t seen the last two girls. Especially Maria. I really think you should reconsider-” you begin, standing up straight, and there is a collective gasp of horror from the crowd.

Queen Charlotte turns to you, and you realise now is when you’re losing your head. 

“Interesting. Well, you have an odd sense of humour, but no matter. I’ll stick with you, I believe.”

There’s a suffocating silence, as everyone waits to see if she’s being serious. It seems as though she is.

Juliette claps tentatively, and then Amy joins in, surer now. You turn to them, pale-faced and desperate.

Then the rest of the debutantes join in confused applauds, followed by their mothers, and you realise you’re in for an interesting season.

“Bonsoir.” comes an irritating voice by your ear, and you straighten, nearly knocking over the potted plant you were trying (and failing) to hide behind.

“You haven’t lived in France for several years now, Isack. You can drop it.” you mutter coldly, flashing a placated smile to any onlookers.

“Well, you don’t read your mail then, non? I’ve been in France studying. Returned for the start of the season, you see. By obligation, naturally.”

“Naturally.” you reply, keeping your eyes on the dance-floor. He shuffles closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours slightly. You try to act normal as you recoil.

“Aren’t you supposed to be there? As the Diamond, you must have people watching you. Even I was told to act interested.”

You shoot him a glare so vicious he has to place a gentle hand over his heart.

“So that’s why you’re here, bothering me?” you retort, venom hanging from each word, and he shrugs.

“You’re the one half-submerged in a bush. Figured you could just use the company. You know I adore annoying you.”

You nod, biting back a smile at his dramatic face.

“Well, now you’ve come across as interested, feel free to scurry away again. Eleanor has been glancing this way for a while now, and you ought not to agitate her.” you nod wisely, and he turns, a slight surprised look passing his face.

When he meets Eleanor’s gaze, he gives her a polite nod, before turning back to you.

“I’ll speak to her in a minute, I suppose. But first, inscribe me there.” he murmurs, gesturing to your dance card hanging by your wrist. You inhale, giving him a curious frown.

He raises an eyebrow and the corner of his lips simultaneously, like it’s a challenge.

“Go on, humour me. And I’d rather not face the embarrassment of a rejection at the first ball. I promise I won’t step on your feet.”

You consider telling him to stop being so irritating, but you just smile, all gentle-mannered and careful. You think back to Juliette’s words, and swallow your pride for what feels like the first time of many.

“You’ve got yourself a waltz, Hadjar. You better not embarrass me.”

“Isack! You promised me an introduction, friend.” comes a voice, and you’re not sure you recognise the owner of it. He’s tall, but not quite lanky, with a warm face and a genuine smile. He claps Isack on the back with an enthusiasm you envy, wondering how he has even a shred of optimism in a place like this.

Isack startles, and you have to mask a laugh with a delicate cough. 

“Of course, my mistake. This is Lord Bearman.” he murmurs, and you give him a slight curtsy, dropping your gaze. “My lord.”

He smiles politely. “If it’s not already full, I’d like to humbly ask for a dance.” he says kindly, the corner of his eyes crinkling, and you nod.

Isack mumbles something under his breath you don’t catch, and then the music has shifted, and you’re trailing onto the ballroom floor, shooting Amy a panicked look from across the room.

“I understand it’s common courtesy to say yes, but you look rather miserable. I wouldn’t have taken much offence if you’d declined me, you know.” Ollie mutters, searching your face for something as he takes your hand. 

“It’s not you. I’m just nervous. You’ll forgive me if I misstep. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.” you reply carefully, admiring the smile that slowly stretches over his face.

“Oh, yes. I heard about what you said to the Queen. Bold, to suggest she was wrong in choosing you. Do you still feel that way?” he asks, and you readjust your hand in his, surprised by the warmth of it.

“Absolutely.” you admit, scouring the rest of the floor as you begin to shift, stepping to the left. “I mean, look at Maria over there. The Queen was far too hasty in her decision. I’ve done nothing of consequence, and I’m not even the most beautiful of the debutantes. I’m not entirely sure what she was doing, frankly.” you admit, your voice reduced to a low hiss. Ollie laughs, seeming to take great pleasure in your irritated tone.

“Well, I believe that beauty exists in the mind that-”

“-contemplates them?” you finish for him, and he grins, having to quickly hide his teeth upon realising his mistake. “Personally, I prefer Shakespeare’s phrasing, with beauty being bought. The idea of that is more intriguing."

“Maybe that is why she chose you.” he concedes, but he doesn’t elaborate. Instead, you both fall silent, focusing on the gentle lull of the music, watching your feet shuffle together in time. 

You’re surprised at the ease of it, the way your nerves subside a little, the way the onlookers become more a blur than a crowd. His arm on your waist feels more like support than something you should be wary of, and you almost wonder if you were being completely dramatic about the whole thing. 

When the song ends, and the violin fades, it takes you a second to go, bowing your head a little.

“I’ll see you later, then. As I suppose asking you for another would be a terrible idea.”

“Oh, terrible. Scandalous. May as well kiss my reputation goodbye.” you joke, letting a small chuckle leave your lips, and he laughs with you.

When you return to the side of the room, Isack is waiting expectantly.

“Can I be of assistance?” you ask, and he frowns, raising a palm.

You look confused for a second.

“Oh. I thought you were joking.”

He half smiles as you take his hand. The song is a little slower than the previous one, and you don’t want to see Amy this time. You just swallow, letting the hum drown out the erratic beating of your heart.

There is something raw in the way you act with Isack. He is not, and will never be, Lord Hadjar to you. He is that to everyone else, but he lives inside you as something entirely different.

But out here, you both have to act. There are roles you play, there are mannerisms you must obey. You do not bicker, you do not fight him off you. Instead, you talk., like you didn’t once chase him around unweeded gardens.

“So, is there anyone here you think you’ll be visiting tomorrow?” you ask carefully, trying to come up with a rational explanation for the way your face is burning when he looks at you.

You decide it’s because of how wholly unnatural this whole thing is. You have no brothers, but you imagine this is what dancing with one must feel like. You want him to let you go, even though he is not gripping you too tightly, and you find the air far too stagnant.

“I’m not sure yet. I’m not overly keen on having a wife.” he admits, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, and you give him an outraged glare.

“Isack!” you hiss quietly, leaning towards him a little so no one can overhear. “You’ve proposed yourself as a bachelor, you can’t just say things like that.”

“I am only saying them to you. You are pretending you want a husband too, non?” he dares, and you inhale, straightening.

“I am not pretending about anything. Unlike you, I am rather useless without a husband. I’m not planning on going through this whole debacle again, so I feel rather inclined to accept the first to propose.” you reply, scowling slightly, but he just gives you an amused expression.

“Even if I proposed right now, you’d take me up on it?”

You huff. “You are not nearly as humorous as you think you are.”

“It’s a hypothetical. Indulge me, I implore you.”

You sigh, shaking your head.

“Not you. That would be much like accepting a death wish.”

His face falls for barely a second, but you catch it. By the time you blink, he’s rearranged it, and he’s smiling with a confidence you can’t tell is real or fake.

“You wound me, mon amie.”

You give him a dry laugh.

“You’d have to care about me for that to wound you.” you joke, but it doesn’t sound funny at all. 

He misses a step, but you pretend not to notice.

“You’re right.” he concedes, but you’re not sure what you’re right about.

You’re trying to embroider a rather stubborn handkerchief, when Juliette bursts through the living room doors, excitement all over her face.

“You have a caller!” she announces, and you freeze.

Amy looks up from the piano curiously.

“Is it Isack?”

You turn to her incredulously.

“Why would it be Isack?”

Amy gives you a quizzical look. “I saw you two dancing last night. I mean, I’m no romantic, but even I felt emotional. Who else could it be?”

It is then that Oliver walks awkwardly through the doors, giving you a shy wave. Amy inhales quietly, and you give him a gentle smile.

Your mother arrives behind him, giving you a supportive nod.

“Sorry to call on you so early, but I have some business errands this afternoon, and I wanted to see you.” he explains politely, taking a seat beside you on the thin sofa, awkwardly glancing between you and your family.

“No need to apologise. Thank you, for coming. I was hoping to get to know more about you anyway.” you say politely, and he beams.

Your sisters pretend not to stare at the pair of you, sitting politely on the sofa, through sips of tea.

He speaks of his brothers, you lower your voice when you speak of your family, and you both mask chuckles.

It works. It’s pleasant. It hums, and that’s enough for you. You weren’t expecting to find something that sings.

When he leaves, you hope you don’t look too dazed. You hope it’s not obvious that you’re already imagining his last name next to your first. You also hope it’s not obvious that you’re staring at the door, like you want someone else to waltz through it.

You tell yourself it’s so you have a choice, but you’ll probably choose this simplicity anyway. You don’t let yourself even consider anything else.

“I saw you two on a walk. Promenading, if you will.” Isack murmurs, pressing his hand firmly on your waist. You shuffle away from him a little, but your footwork refuses to so much as falter.

“That is what one tends to do, when being courted. You know you could speak to me without asking for a dance, yes? I didn’t realise my audience was so… desirable.” you reply, cordially, trying to figure out why he looks so stern.

He scoffs. “Tis’ impossible to speak to you without him lurking. Figured you might appreciate the rescue.”

“I don’t need rescuing, I’m perfectly fine. Us two get along rather well, don’t you think? Better than we ever did, anyway. Maybe you’ve simply set the bar low.”

He practically hisses, and the sound feels like a reward.

“You’re far too cruel to me.” he mutters, and you hide a smile.

“You’re far too volatile. Will you please stop staring at him?” you demand, voice barely above a whisper, and he flicks his eyes to yours instead, with a slow raise of his eyebrow.

“Why? Do you think he feels threatened?”

You don’t catch your gasp before it leaves your mouth, cursing how slow the dance is, how the tempo of the music drags instead of rushes, making you bear the burning of his palm for what feels like an eternity.

“Isack, stop it.  You’re being unkind. You’re meant to be his friend.”

“I am his friend. But we’re friends too, no? No need for him to fawn over you. I’m not actually going to take you away. Not for anything more than a dance.”

You pause, trying to catch Ollie’s eye and smile, but you turn too quickly.

“Do you not think I deserve someone fawning over me?”

He blinks.

“Well, sure. But is that what you want?”

“Us women don’t get what we want. I should be grateful to be doing so well so early. He’s a respectable match.”

“It is early, and your dance card is full.” he says wisely, as though it’s something you hadn’t spotted. As if he has a right to step in, to offer his opinion you’d rather die than ask for.

“Your name is in that card.” you reply simply.

The music slows, pauses, and dies. The crowd begins to disperse, and you know he’ll slip away with them, but you’re not sure if you want to hear his response or not.

So you linger, fingers intertwined, fabric of the gloves meshing into one, and you wait.

“It is.” is all he manages, with one, strangled breath, and then he is gone.

You try not to miss him too terribly as you shrink back to the sidelines.

It hits Lady Whistledown the next morning. You’d expected your name to crop up eventually, but hadn’t expected Isack Hadjar’s to be the one next to it.

“Although it seems the diamond of this season has taken a liking to Oliver Bearman, her old friend Isack Hadjar seems unable to let her go. Anyone can see something simmering unresolved under the surface, but will either of them dare say anything before she finds herself with a ring on her finger?”

Juliettes voice rings out in the drawing room clearly, and you wince at every other word.

“She’s rather irritating, this Whisteledown. You really do underestimate how bad it is when you’re in the limelight.” you mutter, ignoring as you prick yourself with your needle bitterly. Amy sighs knowingly, patting the side of your head.

“It’s okay, it’ll all be sorted soon enough. Although, it might be worth talking about. Even I noticed something last night. Were you two arguing?”

You shake your head.

“He was in an irritable mood. I don’t think he wants to marry at all, and he wants to condemn someone to the same fate. And we used to joke about it, being misfits and refusing all this silliness. Maybe he wonders if that’s still in me, somewhere. He kept trying to convince me to reconsider Oliver.”

Juliette exhales quietly.

“Maybe you ought not to dismiss him so fast. Maybe he is right.”

“I like Oliver. He is pleasant.”

“But you don’t love Oliver.” Amy counters, and you grimace.

“You both know I care for no such thing. And it is not like I love anyone else.”

“You loved Isack, once. There’s no reason in denying it now.”

You scoff, but don’t meet their eyes. “S’not true. We were children. I couldn’t understand what I was feeling. It most certainly wasn’t love, though. He got far too under my skin for that.”

“I believe that’s what love is. Having someone under your skin, and letting them settle there, even if you’re irritated by them. Because it’s better to have them, in all their annoyance, than to let them go.”

You would laugh, but Juliette seems entirely serious, and you figure she’s talking from experience.

“Alright. Well, that’s something to figure out later.” you say dismissively, although you all know that there is no later. It is now, it is until Ollie dares to ask for your hand, it is until Isack begins to confront his own feelings. Which you know he’ll never do, so all is well.

“I saw the paper.” Isack mumbles, brushing past you to shield you from the onlookers. 

“It’s poppycock, if you’ll excuse my language.” you joke, but it comes out flat, like you’re wounded.

He nods, but he almost looks nervous.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, I hope you know that. I just, I just wanted to look out for you. I understand this is stressful-”

“-Isack, it’s alright. Don’t fret.”

Hearing his name leave your mouth so casually almost aches. He should feel disrespected, but he doesn’t. It feels much like his name was made so only you could say it, and he’s ever so glad you’ve disregarded being proper.

“Would it be cruel of me to ask you to dance?  I don’t see your regular partner everywhere.”

“He’s taken his leave. His brother has fallen ill. But yes, it would be cruel.”

“You’re not going to deny me, are you?”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

He offers his hand, and you convince yourself you’re only taking it because it’s the right thing to do.

“Do you always choose the slow ones on purpose? They’re agony. They drag.”

He shrugs, with a careful grin.

“S’not intentional. But you’re rather dramatic.”

His hand covers yours with a determination you’re not sure you recognise, and you let your palm settle on his shoulder with a practiced ease. The edges of your shoes kiss eachother, along with the dust of the floor, daring the other to step out of place, but neither of you do. It’s smooth, but not cold. It’s warm, too warm, too alive.

The spinning is slow, and calculated, making sure your eyes catch with each turn, before they settle on something else.

“They’re going to talk again.”

“Why not let them?”

“Because I am worried he will not propose if I am ruined.”

You feel him straighten, feel him loosen his grip, but he keeps you close.

“You do not think he loves you enough not to care?”

You laugh, and it’s almost a snort.

“All of these childish notions of love! Ridiculous, I just am sick of it. I want to marry, and sit by a window, and learn.”

“Bearman is not the only one who could give you that.” he replies, gritting his teeth, and you inhale.

“He is the only one who seems to care enough to try. My lord, unless you are willing to dispute that, unless you are willing to walk beside the river with me and sit in my drawing room and fawn over my whims, I do not want to hear it.”

He never wants to hear you avoid saying his name again. He never wants to avoid you again. It had been far too easy, when his mother got better, and France called, to pack up and disappear. He had barely even felt the guilt that comes with hurting your own heart.

But now, he realises he’s far too full of cowardice to be greedy. And he is also far too kind, to take you away from him, when you seem content. 

He wants to be cruel enough to keep asking for a dance, to keep giving you half-smiles and barbed comments between drinks, but he isn’t. He’ll just burn, until it turns to embers, and then ashes. And you’ll both be married, and both be miserable, and deem it nothing more than the way of life.

So he waits until the orchestra halts, and he refuses to admit what's keeping him leaving after you slow dance.

You’re not sure when the time passes, but it does. Whistledown leaves you alone, the months fly by, and Isack simply sinks into the crowd. It is polite, it is easy. You’re nearly grateful. You find it nobody’s business but your own that you always leave a waltz blank.

The last ball of the season is hosted by none other than the Bearmans. You try to ignore the whispers of a proposal, but you know he’s spoken to your father. You know they’ve been smiling a little too hard at you recently, and you try to swallow the bile that’s constantly rising in your throat.

You still haven’t entirely registered what’s happening until you’re halfway across the floor, and people are laughing, and your body has kicked in for you. You’re splitting away and circling back, grinning with every side-step, affectionately squeezing Oliver’s hand as you skip around in circles. It feels celebratory, clicking heels and near-enough galloping, and the hollers and squeals are fitting for the last ball, for the final hurrah, for the end of a headache that has spanned several months.

You’re switching partners, and that is how you find yourself in the arms of Isack again, a place you figured you’d never be.

“You look well.” he whispers cordially, and you smile.

“You look irritated.”

He laughs, and it hurts to hear.

“You’re ever so respectable, the two of you. I wish you the best. You know, he’s going to propose.”

“I assumed.” you admit gracefully, with a nod.

“You’re going to say yes, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. He wonders if that’s enough. You’re skipping away before he gets a response, but he knows what you would’ve said.

“You’re spritely, Oliv- my Lord.” you beam, fanning yourself quickly, hoping your cheeks aren’t too flushed. The slow dances drag, the quick dances burn, and you’d rather not dance at all.

“Formalities are rather inconvenient, are they not? I do feel that I should just be Oliver to you, by now.” Ollie decides, and you nod, shrugging a little. Still, the knowing glint in his eyes is making him hard to stare at.

“It’s not much of a surprise, is it?”

You look up, a little confused, but his nervous grin is too endearing to shrug off.

“No, I suppose it isn’t. But I’ve never cared much for surprises. And I feel that, after all of this, it would be more of a surprise if you were not to ask.” you smile, and it is an agreement of other words. It is a reassurance, but not to yourself. It feels like a commitment, a pledge. You suppose that’s exactly what it is.

“Well, that’s a relief. I’ll see you later this evening, then. I believe someone may want to bid you farewell. I hear he’s off back to France.”

You turn, and Isack gives you a limp half-wave.

“You might as well offer him the dance you’ve been saving.”

Ollie gives you a knowing look at your stare of surprise, a glance that tells you that he knows you underestimate him, but he’ll learn to love you anyway, because he’s almost already there.

All the waltz pieces sound the same, but you’re sure this is sadder.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

“I figured you didn’t want us talking anymore. Which is understandable. But it’s alright now, as I am set for Europe, and you are set for marriage.”

He says it so simply, like that was always the destiny you were both meant for. Maybe it was.

“You will come back?”

It’s not a question, it’s a demand, but you ask it anyway.

“If you’d like me to.”

“A piece of your home is always in me.”

It’s a horrific thing to admit, especially to admit it so late.

He presses his forehead to yours, but it is not enough. You both know it. 

You have spent the better half of a year dismissing that love is of any importance to you. He has spent that same time denying love to anyone. He has danced, and flirted, and stared at you across the halls. He has been a coward, and you have been obstinate, and you’re always right, in that you’d never work. But it almost feels like a crime to let him go, to stop turning, to stop pressing the side of your ankle against his, to move your faces apart. You are breathing one and the same, you are sharing a heart, but it is not the same as sharing a name, or a house.

“I should have done something.” he mutters, like it’s his deepest regret.

“If you loved me enough, you would have.” you reply kindly. “And I would’ve admitted it, if it was all that overwhelming. But we’re not stuff of legend, are we?”

“You don’t have to marry him.”

“You don’t have to go to France.”

It might as well be silent, even as the violins swell.

“You could come with me?”

It’s a selfish, gross, cowardly ask. He knows you’ll say no, he knows you’ll be the one that’ll nip it in the bud, he knows he can blame you for the rest of his lonely life.

The rejection never comes.

Instead, Oliver Bearman has taken your hand, has asked to cut in, and you are being whisked away. 

You try to meet Isack’s eyes without making it too obvious, trying to say that, maybe if he’d asked earlier, your answer would be different, but you can’t see him.

Maybe it’s because you’re not brave enough to twist your head all the way. Maybe it’s because he’s already left, even though the weight of his palm still lingers on your back.

By the time the song is over, he is kneeling, you are engaged, and you wish the slow dances had dragged on a little longer.