Page 34 of At First Dance
Rowan leans in just a little. He’s not trying to fix it, just carry some of it.
“I’ve had people treat it like an inconvenience,” I say. “Or like it’s dangerous. Something to hide. And I hate that I still feel that shame—like it’s mine to carry.”
“It’s not,” he says. His voice is firm. “And anyone who makes you feel that way is an asshole.”
I huff a soft, surprised laugh. “You always this direct?”
“When it matters.”
A slow warmth spreads through me. Not heat. Not arousal. Something gentler. More dangerous.
Trust.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For letting me come here. For not treating me like I’m breakable.”
“Stop thanking me. And you’re not,” he says without hesitation. “You’re still standing. That’s strong.”
The words hit me in the chest.
I glance away, blinking fast. “You make it hard to keep my guard up.”
He doesn’t smile, not really, but something flickers at the edge of his mouth. “Good. You shouldn’t have to carry that alone.”
I want to lean into him and say something reckless. To tell him the way his steadiness steadies me, but I don’t. Instead, I scoot a little closer on the couch.
And when my head eventually tilts against the back cushion, eyelids too heavy to fight, I don’t flinch when he tucks the blanket tighter around me.
And I don’t move when he sits on the couch. The couch dips beneath his weight, and for a long, quiet moment, we don’t speak. The storm outside hums through the walls, soft now, like it’s catching its breath. He settles beside me, his body still and solid, like he’s anchoring the whole house in place.
I let mine go.
The blanket he draped over me is warm, but not as warm as the steady pulse of him beside me. We’re not touching, not exactly. But I can feel him. In the way the air shifts with his breath. In the way the silence wraps around us like it belongs to both of us.
My eyelids flutter. My body sinks. The kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical—but bone-deep, soul-tired– softens my muscles.
I drift.
And for what feels like forever, I don’t wake with a jolt. I don’t gasp myself upright or reach for something I can’t name. I just… rest.
When I blink awake again, it’s dark.
The storm has passed. Or maybe it hasn’t. The windows are fogged, and the world outside looks blurred and heavy, like the sky hasn’t made up its mind yet.
I shift slightly and realize my head rests on Rowan’s shoulder. My breath catches. His arm is along the back of the couch, not quite around me, but not distant either. His head tips just a little toward mine, like he’s trying not to move. Like maybe he’s afraid I’ll wake and bolt if he does.
And I might, but I don’t. Because this—whatever this is—it’s safe. Gentle. Unspoken.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I murmur, voice raspy.
His chest rises. “You needed it.”
My cheeks burn. “You didn’t have to stay here with me.”
“I know.”
I glance up. His eyes are already on me. Not intense. Just… aware.
“Rowan—”
