Page 33 of At First Dance
We sit for a long moment. The mugs grow cooler in our hands, the only sound the low hum of wind pressing against the house.
“You ever think about leaving?” I murmur.
He leans back in the chair, stretching his long legs. “Sometimes.”
“What stops you?”
He’s quiet for a second, then shrugs. “This place. My family. The land. It’s in my blood.”
“That must be nice,” I say, fingers tracing the edge of my mug. “To belong somewhere.”
He turns his head, eyes meeting mine fully. “You don’t?”
I try to laugh, but it dies in my throat. “I belong to whoever needs a good headline.”
His gaze sharpens. Something flickers there—anger, maybe. Or protectiveness.
“You belong to yourself,” he says, low and certain.
My breath catches. He reaches out—slowly—and tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers barely brush my skin, but the contact sparks something deep. Something alive.
We’re suddenly too close. Or maybe not close enough. His hand lingers near my cheek, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I. My breath hitches. Then the power flickers. The lamp dims and flares, then steadies again.
We both jump as his hand drops. The moment snaps like a taut string pulled too far.
He clears his throat and stands abruptly. “I should check the fuse box.”
I nod, heart pounding. “Okay.”
He disappears down the hallway, and I sit there on the couch, blanket wrapped around my legs, pulse racing like I’ve just sprinted a mile. The storm outside howls again. The trees shudder.
The lights settle, a low hum returning to the room just as Rowan reappears, hair slightly mussed, expression unreadable.
“All good,” he says.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He hovers in the doorway for a moment like he’s not sure whether to sit again. I don’t ask him to, but I want him to. He sits anyway.
The house creaks around us. A shutter claps once, then falls still.
“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time.
I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… storms.”
He waits.
I sigh, running a thumb over the stitching in the blanket. “It’s not just the thunder or the lights. It’s the way it messes with my head.”
He stays still, eyes on me.
“The epilepsy,” I say, softer now. “Controlled, mostly. But storms—they do something to me. Sometimes it’s not even physical. It’s like my body remembers how to panic before my brain does.”
“Sensory overload?” he asks gently.
“Exactly.”
I stare down at my empty mug. “I’m okay when I’m calm and I feel safe. But today? Between the calls and the hotel and the storm—” I break off, the words sticking.
