“Dancing.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t dance.”
“That sounds made up.”
“It’s not made up.”
She starts tugging anyway. “Come on.”
I plant my boots. “Tavey.”
“Miller.” She gives me a very pointed look. “You dressed as a shirtless Dothraki warrior for a themed wedding. You do not get to draw the line at dancing.”
I stare at her.
She stares right back, triumphant.
Fuck. She has a point.
“I hate that you’re right,” I tell her.
“I know.”
Before I can come up with another objection, she tugs me onto the dance floor.
I’m not a dancer.
I am, however, capable of moving from one foot to the other without injury, which appears to satisfy her far more than it should. She beams up at me like I’ve given her a gift just by showing up.
The song is fast enough that there’s no expectation of real skill. Just movement. Rhythm. A little chaos. Which suits her fine.
She sways and spins and laughs when one of her scarves gets wrapped briefly around my wrist. I unwind it and hand it back to her, and she says, “See? You’re a natural.”
“At untangling hazards?”
“At dancing.”
“I think we have different definitions of that word.”
“Mine is better.”
That much is obvious.
The song ends and another starts before she can drag me off the floor. Slower this time. Not a full-on ballad, but close enough that the people around us start pairing off more deliberately.
Tavey hesitates.
I should let her go.
Instead, I step closer.
Just enough to make the choice for both of us.
Her eyes lift to mine. There’s a flicker of uncertainty there. Hope too.
