"Good." His smile was wicked and tender all at once. "Neither am I."
They began to dance.
For the first few steps, she was still aware of the crowd—the watching eyes, the whispered comments, the weight of expectation pressing down on her shoulders. Her feet moved through the patterns they'd practiced, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed, but there was a stiffness to her movements that she couldn't seem to shake.
And then he spun her, bringing her back into his arms with a flourish that made her gasp—and something shifted.
She stopped thinking.
The dance became what it had always been in their private practices: a conversation. His body spoke to hers through touchand movement, guiding without commanding, responding to every small shift of her weight. When she leaned, he caught her. When he advanced, she retreated in perfect complement.
They wove through the choreographed steps, but it didn't feel choreographed anymore. It felt like flying. Like falling. Like the most natural thing in the world.
The music built toward its crescendo, and she found herself laughing—actually laughing, joy bubbling up from some deep place she'd forgotten existed. His answering grin was brilliant, transforming his sharp features into something almost boyish.
The final turn. The dip. His arms cradling her, her back arched, the world spinning around her in a blur of color and sound?—
And then stillness.
For one perfect moment, they held the pose, her body suspended in his embrace, their breath mingling in the space between them. The music faded. The crowd erupted into applause.
But she barely heard it. All she could see was his face, inches from her own, his golden eyes soft with something that looked like wonder.
"You were magnificent," he said quietly, for her ears alone.
"We were," she corrected, and watched his expression shift into something deeper, something that made her chest ache with the truth of it.
He lifted her upright, keeping hold of her hand as they faced the cheering crowd and took their bow. Somewhere in the audience, she could see Daisy dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief—probably silk, probably designer, definitely leaving mascara stains.
Lila was whooping enthusiastically from near the lemonade stand. The Sanderson sisters were applauding with dignified approval. Even Silas, lurking at the back of the crowd, gave a slow, grudging nod.
They had done it.
She had done it.
The rest of the day unfolded like a dream.
She drifted through the festival in a haze of happiness, greeting vendors and troubleshooting minor issues and accepting compliments that made her blush and stammer. The opening dance had broken something loose in her—some wall she hadn't even realized she'd been hiding behind—and for the first time in memory, she felt like she actually belonged somewhere.
Not hiding in the corner. Not managing from the shadows.
Present.
She danced with Lila to the folk band that took over after the string quartet, laughing as her best friend led her through increasingly ridiculous spins. She sampled cheese until she was slightly dizzy from the varieties—aged cheddar and creamy brie and something blue-veined and pungent that made her eyes water.
She watched children chase each other through the hay-bale maze, their shrieks of joy echoing across the vineyard. She helped an elderly woman find a seat when the walking became too much, and accepted a pressed flower bookmark in return. She ate a funnel cake dusted with powdered sugar and didn't care when it covered her dress in white fingerprints.
And through it all, she was aware of Thallos.
He moved through the festival like a conductor through an orchestra, managing the chaos with effortless charm. She'd catch glimpses of him—pouring wine for a group of tourists, laughing with one of the farmers from the outskirts of town, lifting a child onto his shoulders so she could see the puppet show.
Every now and then, their eyes would meet across the crowd, and she'd feel it like a physical touch. A promise. A reminder.
This is real. This is ours. We built this.
As afternoon faded into evening, the paper lanterns flickered to life one by one, turning the vineyard into something out of a fairy tale. The crowd began to shift toward the central stage, drawn by the warm glow and the promise of evening entertainment.
She found a spot near the front, her mother beside her—Daisy had been surprisingly unobtrusive all day, helping where she was needed and not making everything about herself—and watched as the various performers took their turns.
