Page 41 of Until You

That almost-smile. The one I’ve been chasing since Ace’s. It appears at the corner of his mouth and then retreats, like it knows better than to stay.

We stand there in the quiet. The fence is rough against my arms through the thin fabric of my dress. The air smells like mesquite smoke and brisket, and his cedar—scented soap that’s been living in my head rent-free for three months.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says.

Low. Quiet. Not the fumbling nice from the table. This is the real version. The one he was holding back. I can hear it in the grain of his voice, in the way the words land—unhurried and certain, placed with the same deliberate care he gives to everything.

I turn my head. Study him. Those not-quite-brown eyes in the dark. The jaw. The stubble. The curls that fall across his forehead without a hat to hold them back. The broad, steady shape of him, leaning against a fence post in the starlight, looking at me like I’m something worth studying.

Something worth keeping.

“Oliver,” I say.

And my voice—traitor that it is cracks open just enough to let my emotions wobble into my words.

“Yeah?”

I open my mouth, but instead of my confession, he speaks.

“Dance with me,” he says.

Not a question. Not quite a demand. Something in between. An offering wrapped in certainty, like he’s decided this is going to happen and he’s giving me the courtesy of letting me think I have a choice.

“Oliver.”

“One dance.”

“We agreed. The ground rules⁠—”

“It’s my grandparents’ anniversary party. People are dancing. If we don’t dance, it’s more conspicuous than if we do.”

I narrow my eyes. “Did you just use peer pressure to justify this?”

He shrugs. “Seemed like the kind of argument you’d respond to.”

He’s not wrong. And I hate that he knows it.

The band shifts into something slow. A steel guitar slides into a melody I recognize as the notes drift across the yard like smoke, curling around the string lights, settling into the warm night air.

I should say no.

I should absolutely say no.

I should turn around and go find someone—anyone else—to talk to. So that I can spend the rest of this night at a safe distance from the man whose child is currently growing inside me.

“One dance.”

His mouth does the thing. The almost-smile. The one he keeps locked away and only lets out in fractions, like he’s rationing it, like if he gave me the full version I’d have too much power.

He closes the distance between us in three strides.

His hand finds the small of my back first. Warm. Certain. Exactly where it was three months ago, when a slow song played and everything that came after became inevitable.

His other hand takes mine. Our fingers thread together like they remember the shape of each other.

And then we’re moving.

It’s nothing like the dance floor at Ace’s. There’s no crowd pressing in, no excuse to stand close. Out here, near the edge of the party, we’re just two people swaying under the stars. The music reaches us in waves—clear, then muffled, then clear again as the breeze shifts.