Page 132 of At First Dance
The second verse is bolder. Stronger. I let myself feel every lyric. Let myself love him through the music. Not just because he deserves it, but because I do, too.
“I came here running from something,
Now I’m standing still for you.
This small town wrote my ending,
And my beginning too…”
By the time I hit the final note, the crowd is silent. Not out of disinterest. Out of reverence. Then someone claps. And another. And then the whole damn park erupts into cheers.
I can’t help the laugh that bursts from my chest as I step back from the mic, my cheeks flushed, hands trembling. But I don’t want to bask in this moment alone. I want him.
Rowan breaks through the crowd as people begin to rise, congratulating, whistling, shouting my name. He doesn't stop to acknowledge them. His eyes are on me like I’m gravity itself.
When he reaches the edge of the stage, I meet him halfway, guitar forgotten behind me. I practically leap down into his arms, and he catches me like he was born to.
“Jesus, Ivy,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “That song—”
“It was yours.” I bury my face in his neck. “It’ll always be yours.”
We’re standing in front of everyone, but it doesn’t matter. I kiss him anyway. Slow, sweet, and unhurried. A promise.
Rowan cups my cheek, and for a second, I think he’s going to say something teasing, something to cut through the heat in his eyes. But instead, he leans closer.
“Come with me,” he murmurs.
My brows lift. “Where?”
He laces our fingers together, tugging me past the stage lights, past the food stalls, games, and folding chairs. We wind through the trees toward the back edge of the park, toward the walking trail that loops behind the marsh.
When we reach a clearing strung with soft fairy lights—clearly another of his surprises—he stops.
No one else is in sight. Just the sounds of the celebration fading behind us and the faint ripple of water nearby.
Rowan turns toward me, his hands resting lightly on my waist. His eyes search mine with a look so intense it steals my breath.
“I didn’t want to do this in front of everyone,” he says.
My heart leaps. “Do what?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, simple ring. It’s not flashy—just a delicate gold band with the sparkle of an antique diamond, warm and real and so perfectly us.
“Evangeline Quinn,” he says, voice steady, and it’s the first time my real name sounds like a prayer instead of a curse, “you walked into my life like a damn wildfire. And I’ve been burning for you ever since.”
My breath catches.
“I don’t care about cameras or headlines or stage lights. I care about porch swings and early mornings and the way your hair smells when it’s still wet from the shower. I care about you—here, now, always.”
Tears sting my eyes.
“I can live in your world,” he says, “if you can live in mine.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You don’t even have to ask.”
But he does anyway.
“Marry me?”
