Page 45 of At First Dance
I swear under my breath, sit up, and pace the room like I can outwalk my own damn guilt.
What the hell am I even doing? She’s Crew’s ex. Even if it was fake, the lines are still blurry. She’s famous. She’s been on tour buses and red carpets while I’ve spent the past decade in dirt and sweat and routine. And she’s only here because her car died and fate has a cruel sense of humor.
There’s no version of this where I come out clean. And still…. Still, I want to go outside, knock on that door, and ask her what would’ve happened if I hadn’t stepped away.
Would she have kissed me back?
Would she have let me keep going?
Would I have finally stopped pretending I don’t feel this thing crackling between us like lightning across a dry field?
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, forehead resting on my fists. “Shit,” I mutter.
I’m not good at talking about feelings and never have been. But with Ivy, the feelings come too fast to sort through. It’s like stepping into a riptide—sudden, wild, dragging you under whether you fight or not.
And the worst part? I don’t want to fight. I want to let go. Just once. Let myself want something—want her.
But then the doubts come roaring back. Crew. The gossip. Her leaving again. Me falling harder than I’ll ever admit.
I slam the heel of my hand against my thigh and blow out a breath, forcing myself to stand. I’ve screwed up enough for one night.
Yet I cross to the window, peel back the curtain, and look across the property anyway. The cottage light is off. She’s gone to bed or wants me to think she has. Either way, I don’t blame her.
I let the curtain fall and step back, every inch of me heavy with the weight of what almost was. Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll fix it. But tonight, I carry it, just as I always do.
Alone.
The house is quiet. Too much so.
I’ve walked every inch of this place over the years—tightened hinges, fixed pipes, rewired outlets—but tonight, it feels like a stranger. Like it’s not mine anymore, and I’m not supposed to be here. Not with this tight, aching pull in my chest that won’t let up.
I try to sleep. God knows I try. But my thoughts won’t shut off, and my body is wired, every nerve standing at attention like it expects her to walk back in and call me out for being a damn coward.
I want her to.
So I get up. Again. Bare feet on the hardwood. My boxers and a cotton tee do nothing to block the cool of the air coming through the screen door. I move down the hall like a man chasing a ghost—quiet, aimless, hurting.
When I reach the back window, I stop. The cottage is dark, and I expect that, but then, just as I turn away, a light flickers on inside. Small. Soft. The reading lamp near the window.
And there she is.
Ivy Quinn, sitting on the edge of the bed in that oversized sweatshirt I gave her, hair pulled back, knees drawn up, staring at the same empty night I am.
Something about it hits me so hard I have to brace a hand on the doorframe.
She looks like she doesn’t belong anywhere else but here. Wishing she wasn’t made of headlines or record deals or glossy magazine shoots. Just a girl who needs rest. Who maybe needs something more than fame and fast lanes and forced smiles. Someone who needs real.
She rubs her hands over her knees, then glances toward the window like she feels me watching her. I don’t move; she doesn’t either. And for a long, aching minute, we just… look. Two silhouettes in the quiet. Two people carrying more than we ever say out loud.
She tilts her head slightly, like she wants to ask a question. I press my palm flat against the windowpane. She doesn’t wave, but she doesn’t look away either.
And that says more than either of us can handle tonight.
When she finally reaches up and clicks off the lamp, the space swallows her whole. The window goes dark, but the heat in my chest stays lit.
I stand there for a long time, eyes trained on the dark shape of the cottage, every beat of my heart echoing with a word I don’t say.
Stay.
