Page 49 of At First Dance
The bulb hums above us like it agrees. The tight band in my chest eases a notch. I exhale, then let more truth out. “I don’t always trust myself with good things,” I say quietly. “I want them too much, and then I squeeze until they break. With you… I don’t want to ruin it by grabbing before we’ve built anything.”
Her eyes go warm around the edges. “Then don’t grab,” she whispers. “Build anyway. Hold on. Let it take the time it needs.”
She says it like it’s simple. It isn’t. But it sounds possible in her mouth—like cedar and sawdust and early light on the back pasture. I didn’t invite this woman into my life; she crashed into it. And now she’s the one who made me say out loud the thing I’ve never given voice to: that I want more than this routine ofwork-sleep-repeat. A place for kids to learn dirt under nails is holy. A rhythm that belongs to me. She made it feel like lumber I can cut instead of a picture I put away whenever someone walks in the room.
I clear my throat. “I’m not good at leaving,” I tell her, and it comes out steadier than I feel. “I’m the guy who stays and fixes boards and shows up with coffee at six. I’ll be here tomorrow and the day after. If you go back to lights and noise, I’ll still be here. If you come back, I’ll still be here. Either way, I’m not changing my mind because it gets hard.”
Her breath catches with the smallest sound. She steps the last inch into my space, and I feel the heat of her even before her fingers find the hem of my shirt and hold there, not pulling me in but not letting me go. “Can I be honest?” she asks.
“Please.”
“I want you to kiss me,” she whispers, voice shaking. “And I’m terrified of what that means.”
“Me, too,” I say, and then I add the part that matters. “But I want it anyway.”
“Okay,” she says.
I keep it careful. My palm settles along her jaw, my thumb a slow stroke near the corner of her mouth—asking. Her nod is the smallest permission I’ve ever felt. I bend, just enough, and our lips meet—soft, patient, the kind of kiss that feels like placing a fragile thing exactly where it belongs. She exhales against my mouth, and her fingers bunch my shirt. Everything in me answers by deepening—barely, a breath—and then I pull back before hunger eats caution.
We rest there, foreheads touching, the kitchen light casting shadows on the boards around our feet.
“I should go back to the cottage,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t let go.
“You can,” I say, smoothing my hand down to her shoulder, tugging the hoodie’s edge back into place like it’s an excuse to touch her again. “And I’ll be here in the morning with coffee. Fence checks at seven. You can come with me or sleep in. Both are allowed.”
“If I stay… do we change everything?” she asks, searching my face like she’s memorizing a map that only makes sense tonight.
“Things have already changed,” I answer. “Back on that shoulder when you stood there behind those oversized sunglasses and asked for help like a person, not a headline.”
Her mouth curves, and the ache behind my ribs goes sweet. She loosens her grip on my shirt, then tightens it for one last second, like she’s telling herself she can. “I don’t want to be another mess you have to clean up.”
“You’re not a mess,” I say, and I don’t care if it sounds too big. “You’re the reason the house feels less empty. You’re the person who made me say out loud the things I only let myself think when nobody’s watching. Let me… be the guy who stays. Let me prove it slow.”
“I should still go,” she whispers, “before I forget how.”
I nod, my hand brushing her elbow. “Let me walk you back.”
She shakes her head. “Stay here. You’ve done enough rescuing for one week.”
I open the door and watch her step back into the night, moonlight washing over her. Her bare feet barely make a sound on the gravel, the borrowed sweatshirt swaying at her hips.
She turns at the edge of the yard. “You left the porch light off.”
“I didn’t know if you’d come.”
Her smile turns sad—and something else. Something like hope. “Next time, leave it on.”
Then she disappears into the shadows, and I stand there like an idiot, heart full and hollow all at once.
There’s no going back now.
And for what feels like a long damn while, I don’t want to.
Chapter Eight – Ivy
The morning air is syrup-thick and golden when I step out onto the porch of the guest cottage. Warm, but not stifling—at least, not yet. Bees buzz lazily around the edge of the flower garden. The only sounds are distant birdsong and the quiet creak of the old wood beneath my feet.
It’s the kind of quiet you can breathe.
