Page 120 of At First Dance
The fact that he took my scribble and made it a plan loosens something in my chest—and with it comes the jolt of what I forgot.
“I left my notebook,” I whisper, voice breaking. “That’s how I knew I had to come back. Because it holds everything. My songs. My thoughts.You.”
His expression shifts into something devastatingly tender.
“I know,” he says quietly.
I freeze. “You read it?”
He hesitates. “Just one page. The one it fell open to. I’m sorry. I know it was an invasion of your privacy, but it was like the world left me this little piece of you.”
“And?”
“And I’ve never been the subject of a song before,” he says, brushing his knuckles along my jaw. “Didn’t know it would feel like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe I’m not so bad at being loved after all.”
My chest caves.
“You’re not,” I whisper. “You’re… everything.”
We stay like that, wrapped in each other beneath the soft string lights, the whole world narrowed to this loft, this moment, this man. I press a kiss to his chest. “So… what happens now?”
He leans down and presses his forehead to mine. “We figure it out.”
At some point, the night cools and the lights hum softer. He tugs his jeans back on, wraps the quilt around my shoulders, and kisses my temple. “Ladder’s a two-hand job,” he murmurs, then scoops me anyway—one arm under my knees, the other at my back—carrying me to the loft ladder like I weigh nothing. We descend slowly, my fingers looped at his nape, the barn dark and sweet with hay. Outside, crickets thicken the air. He keeps me tucked to him as we cross the yard, my bare toes brushing his thigh where the quilt rides up.
“You can’t sleep on splinters,” he says, mouth curving against my hair.
Inside his house, he sets me on the bathroom counter and flips the light to low. Warm water, a clean washcloth. He works carefully—wiping hay dust from my shoulders, the smudge on my knee, pulling a straw from my hair with a grin like he’s found treasure. “Hold still,” he murmurs, dabbing at a tiny scrape. He hands me a soft T-shirt that smells like line-dried cotton and him. I pull it over my head. It hits mid-thigh. His eyes go gentle.
In the bedroom, he turns down the sheets, slides a glass of water and two ibuprofens to my side, and kills the lamp so only the hall glow remains. When he climbs in, it’s careful—like he’s not sure I’ll stay. I turn, fit my back to his chest, and his armbands across my waist. “Right here,” he breathes at the nape of my neck, more vow than words.
“Right here,” I echo, and sleep takes us fast.
The morning sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, laying pale gold across the floor. I stretch, deliciously sore in all the best ways, last night sparking a satisfied ache low in my belly. My limbs are tangled in the sheets—Rowan’s sheets—and I don’t care that my hair’s a wreck or that a stray piece of hay still clings to my calf. I feel… alive.
The bedroom is quiet except for the low hum of a fan and the occasional creak of old wood settling. The scent of cedar and Rowan clings to the room—earthy and warm, with just enough spice to make my thighs squeeze together under the covers. I roll toward the empty space where he should be, my hand brushing over the spot where his body lay just hours ago.
Still warm.
I press my palm flat against it, eyes fluttering shut for a beat, and then I hear it—muffled clattering from the kitchen, a low grunt, and the clink of silverware.
My heart does something stupid. Something soft.
I slip out of bed and tug on his T-shirt from the floor, the hem brushing high on my thighs. My bare feet hit the cool floor, and I make my way down the hall, pausing just outside the kitchen.
He’s standing by the stove, hair damp from the shower, flannel pajama pants slung low on his hips. He holds a spatula in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s humming—off-key but earnest—and I want to bottle this moment forever.
I step into the room.
“Smells good,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
Rowan turns, a slow grin spreading across his face when he sees me in his shirt. “Figured you might be hungry. I wore you out last night.”
My cheeks flush. “Cocky much?”
