She tilts her chin, her gaze flicking up to meet mine, and fuck, the uncertainty in her eyes is enough to knock the air straight from my lungs. It's not that she doesn't want this—it's that she's terrified of wanting it too much.
She wants to run, but she's fighting herself. She knows she wants me too. I tighten my grip on her waist, guiding her into the rhythm, keeping her close—closer than I probably should, but I can't help myself. The feel of her against me, finally in my arms, is intoxicating.
She sways with me, her fingers curling into my shirt, her breath coming just a little bit faster, her body giving in, melting into mine. The stubborn resistance from moments ago begins to fade, replaced by something softer, something that feels a lot like surrender.
And damn, if it doesn't wreck me.
I dip my head slightly, my lips brushing just below her ear as I murmur, "Still thinking, Mads?"
She shivers. I feel it everywhere—the slight tremor that runs through her, the way her fingers tighten reflexively in my shirt, the almost imperceptible tilt of her head, giving me better access to the curve of her neck.
Then, before I can stop her, she turns in my arms.
Slow. Deliberate.
Suddenly, she's right there.
Her chest brushes mine, her hands slipping up my sides before looping around my neck, her fingers threading into my hair. The gesture is bold, intimate in a way we've never allowed ourselves to be.
I groan at the contact, my grip on her hips flexing, pulling her impossibly closer.
She looks up at me, eyes dark, lips parted slightly—like she's warring with herself, like she's fighting the exact same battle I've been losing for years. The string lights overhead reflect in her eyes, turning them to liquid gold.
And then, she whispers, voice barely audible over the music, "What do you want from me, Jaxon?"
I exhale, fingers tightening on her waist, my forehead dipping to rest against hers. Everything narrows to this moment, to the feel of her in my arms, to the words I've held back for too long.
"Everything."
She stills. I watch her throat work, her breath coming uneven, her fingers trembling slightly in my hair. She looks almost afraid of the answer, like she knew what I would say but wasn't prepared for the weight of it.
I smirk, just barely, trying to ease the tension. "But a date would be a good start."
Madison's breath stutters, her fingers tightening in my hair, her chest rising and falling against mine as the music pulses around us. The space between us is nothing now—just heat, just tension, just the electricity that's been crackling under my skin for weeks. For years, if I'm being honest.
She swallows hard. "A date?"
I nod, my forehead still pressed against hers. "Yeah, Mads. A date."
Her lips part like she's about to say something, but then she hesitates, tilting her head slightly, searching my face. "Why doesn't this count?"
I huff out a low laugh, my hands flexing on her waist, fingers brushing against the bare skin beneath her tank top. The question is so typically Madison—practical, direct, cutting straight to the heart of things.
"Because I'm not interested in being just another guy you get drunk with at a party."
She blinks, lips pressing together. There's a flash of something in her eyes—understanding, maybe, or recognition of what I'm really saying.
I dip my head, voice low, just for her. "I want more than just one night, Mads. I want you."
Her eyes flicker with something I can't quite name—something hesitant, something like she wants to believe me but doesn't trust herself to. It breaks my heart a little, seeing her doubt what's so clear to everyone else.
I exhale, my grip gentle but firm as I pull her even closer, eliminating any space that might have been left between us.
"Come on, let me take you out. A real date. No running, no excuses."
She exhales sharply, looking everywhere but at me, her fingers still tangled in my hair like she's forgotten she put them there. I can almost see the walls she's trying to build crumbling before they're even up.
Then, she swallows and murmurs, "I don't know how."
