Page 35 of At First Dance
“You don’t have to say anything.”
But I do.
“I don’t do this,” I whisper. “Show up. Fall apart. Stay in one place too long.”
His eyes search mine, steady as a fence post. “I’m not built for leaving,” he says quietly. “I set roots, not tents. If you need to go, you go. I’ll still be here. And if you stay…” His mouthtips, almost a vow. “I’m not a man who changes his mind when something matters.”
A silence settles between us—dense and humming and full of things we’re both too cautious to name. Neither of us budges. His thumb brushes the edge of the blanket where it’s slipped off my shoulder, tugging it back into place. It’s such a small thing. Barely a touch. But my entire body notices.
I trace the pattern on the blanket with the tip of my finger. “I thought I was just passing through.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
When he does, his voice is rough. “Are you?”
I want to lie. To say yes. That this is just a detour, a misstep in the carefully controlled choreography of my life. But the truth has already settled in my bones.
“I don’t know anymore.”
He nods once, accepting it like it’s an answer.
The wind picks up outside, rustling the trees again, but I barely hear it. All I hear is my own heartbeat. And his, steady beneath my cheek.
I close my eyes, just for a second, letting myself imagine what it might feel like to stay. To belong to something that doesn’t ask me to perform or explain. To be wanted not for headlines or singles or streaming numbers—but for showing up in the rain with shaking hands and asking to be let in.
I’m still not sure what this is, but I know what it’s not.
It’s not hollow.
It’s not fake.
It’s not alone.
Chapter Six – Ivy
The mornings here start slow.
Not quiet—roosters don’t care for poetic timing and the goats across the fence make their opinions known with every passing hour—but slow, like time itself has learned to breathe differently on this land.
I like it.
Like the way the sun creeps over the ridge, brushing golden fingers across the fields like it’s waking the world with soft hands. Like how the dew still clings to the wild grasses and even the fence posts look like they have a story to tell.
I like that I can breathe here. Not the shallow, panicked inhale of red carpets and tour buses. Not the rehearsed calm that comes with media training and champagne toasts I never want to give. But a real breath. Deep. Steady.
Alive.
The barn doors creak open as I step inside, hair twisted in a messy bun, Rowan’s oversized hoodie swallowing my frame. I haven’t officially asked if I can borrow it again. I just… do.
The scent of hay and wood settles around me. Familiar now. Almost comforting.
“Morning, darlin’.”
I turn at the sound of Rowan’s voice, a lazy smile pulling at my lips before I can stop it. He stands at the far end of the barn, pitchfork in hand, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that have no business being that defined. Not to mention the fading tattoos from spending too much time in the sun.
“Morning,” I echo, voice still rough with sleep.
“You sleep okay?”
