“Dance with me,” I say, holding out a hand when I stop beside her table.
Galeana blinks, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the dance floor. “You’re my wife now, and we haven’t had our first dance. People might start to talk.”
She looks around, and for the first time tonight, she smiles faintly, though it’s laced with sarcasm. “I doubt anyone’s paying attention to us.”
“I’m paying attention,” I reply, keeping my hand out. “Humor me, Gale. One dance.”
Galeana sighs, but she slips her hand into mine, letting me pull her to her feet. “Fine. One dance. And I already told you my name is Galeana.”
“Sure, but wouldn’t it be weird that your friends call you Gale and I don’t, darling?” I grin innocently, feeling like I’ve won something.
Her palm is small and warm in mine as I lead her to the dance floor, the music softening into something slow and lilting. My teammates whoop and holler in the background like idiots, but I ignore them, stopping in the middle of the floor and turning to face her.
“You’re lucky if I don’t step on your toes,” she mutters as I place my hand on her waist and pull her closer.
“You’re lucky I’m a great dancer,” I shoot back, grinning. “Hockey players have excellent balance.”
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, but she doesn’t argue. I take that as a win.
We move slowly to the music, and for a moment, it’s just us—the noise of the reception fading into the background. She’s stiff at first, like she’s afraid to let herself relax, but I guide her gently, and eventually, she softens, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
“You know,” I murmur, glancing down at her, “this is the part where you’re supposed to smile and look like you’re having the best day of your life.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ll save my acting skills for later. I’m too tired for a performance right now.”
I study her, my gaze lingering on the shadows under her eyes and the faint tension in her jaw. “It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?”
Her eyes flick up to mine, wary. “What do you mean?”
“You look very unhappy,” I insist.
She shrugs. “My first wedding was canceled by the groom at the very last minute and today . . .” she pauses, as if searching for the words. “It’s like I can’t find that happiness. Like I’m waiting for something to change, for someone to come along and?—”
“Save you?” I cut in.
“No. I don’t need anyone to save me, just to love me.”
“You seem like a lovable person,” I say, pulling her closer to me. “Maybe no one has taken the time to get to know you.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she rests her head on my chest, her fingers curling against the fabric of my shirt. Then she finally speaks.
“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice quiet, almost fragile. “It’s like I’ve spent so much time fighting for things—fighting to prove I deserve them—that I don’t even know what happiness would feel like anymore. I don’t even know what I need to do to be worthy of love.”
The honesty in her words knocks something loose in me. It’s raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, I can’t speak.
“You deserve it,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “Happiness. Love. All of it. You don’t need to do anything. The right person will see it—will see you.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, startled, searching for something in my face. I hold it, letting the words settle, and for once, not hiding the truth behind them.
“What about you?” she asks, her voice softer now. “Do you think you’ll ever be happy? Will you ever fall in love?”
For a second, I can’t look away from her. The question lodges in my chest, sitting there like a quiet challenge. Because the answer is right in front of me, staring up with those guarded eyes that give away more than she realizes. If I just—if I let myself try—if I make an effort to open the door I’ve been holding shut for years, I could find it.
Love. A friend. Everything.
Instead of saying anything, I guide her into a slow spin, letting the music move us, and when she comes back into my arms, there’s the faintest smile—tiny and fleeting—pulling at the corner of her mouth.
