You'd walked out of the bathroom in the green dress — JLo's Versace, the recreation you'd spent two weeks tracking down — and Sean had looked up from his phone for exactly three seconds before saying, "Nice."

Nice. Like you were a mediocre sandwich.

"That's it?" you said, because sometimes you still made the mistake of expecting something from your boyfriend.

He'd set his phone down then, which felt like progress until he said, "I just think the couple costume works better if we match more. You're giving full red carpet and I'm in jeans."

"That's the idea, Sean. JLo always outshines him. That's literally the point."

He hadn't looked convinced but you let it go, as you didn't wanna spoil your mood, arguing with him.

The car ride was about the Dunkin' cup. Whether he should've printed the logo bigger. Whether laminating it was worth the effort. You watched streetlights blur past and said mm-hm in the right places and thought about the conversation you'd been almost-having for three months now — the one where you told him that Vermont wasn't something you were considering, that giving up your dreams for their relationship wasn't on the table, that you needed him to actually hear you when you said that instead of nodding and bringing it up again two weeks later like you'd said nothing at all.

The Halloween party was at Dean and Beau's house — dynamic duos theme, it was the kind of Briar event people referenced afterward. The second you walked through the door you felt your whole chest unclench. Barbie and Ken near the speaker, two guys in Dumb and Dumber suits absolutely losing it in the kitchen. The good kind of loud. Sean found someone he knew within four minutes, he touched your arm once. "Gonna grab the Dunkin' cup from the car, the costume doesn't read without it. I'll find you."

"Sure," you said.

Sean disappeared somewhere behind you after that, absorbed easily into the noise and bodies and familiar faces, and for a while you stayed near the edge of the kitchen. Someone handed you a drink at some point. Someone else dragged you toward the dance floor when the music shifted into something louder, warmer, easier to move to, and eventually you stopped thinking about where Sean had gone altogether. By the time On the Floor came on, you'd already been dancing for a while.

You moved toward the center of the floor like the song had reached into your chest and made a decision for you, silk swishing against your legs, and you closed your eyes for a few seconds and just existed without performing anything for anyone.

When you opened your eyes, someone across the floor was watching you. Dean.

Dean Di Laurentis was standing across the floor looking at you like he'd forgotten there were other people in the room.

Top Gun flight suit. Aviators hanging from the collar. Blond hair damp at the edges from heat or dancing or both. He should've looked ridiculous, honestly. Instead he looked unfairly good, one hand resting loosely around the neck of a beer bottle while his gaze stayed fixed on you with an ease that made your stomach tighten before you could stop it.

You looked away first but it didn't really help, because a minute later the space behind you shifted, the crowd pressing closer with the chorus, and suddenly there was warmth at your back and broad shoulders brushing yours as someone moved easily into your orbit like they'd always belonged there.

Dean's hand settled low against your waist without hesitation, fingers spreading lightly against the silk, and the contact felt so natural it startled you more than the boldness of it should have.

You could feel him smiling against the curve of your shoulder before you actually turned toward him, could feel the heat of him every time the crowd shifted tighter around you, and when his head dipped slightly It just felt inevitable — the gradual pull of his body against yours, the slow drag of his gaze every time you glanced back at him.

The song pulsed louder around you. His thumb moved once against your waist with the beat.