Shane’s palms were already sweating by the time he spotted you weaving through the crowd.

Great. Just great.

He wiped them on his jeans, but it didn’t help. Nothing could help. Not his stupid shirt, not the half-assed cologne he’d found buried in a drawer this morning, and definitely not the way his heart kicked up like he was about to puke instead of dance.

God. Dancing. At the Flower Festival. Like he was some normal, functional person who didn’t spend 90% of his waking life trying not to feel anything at all.

He should’ve said no.

He wanted to say no.

He’d even practiced it — something sarcastic, maybe even a little mean, just enough to get you to back off before you saw how nervous he actually was. But then you’d looked at him. Really looked. Like you didn’t see the town’s resident drunk or the screw*-up who always had his head down at Joja*. Like maybe — somehow — you saw someone worth asking.

And Marnie, of course. She’d cornered him in the kitchen like a damn stealth attack.

“You’re dancing this year,” she’d said, voice all cheerful like it was non-negotiable. “And not with Emily. Someone actually asked you, Shane. Try not to screw it up.”

So here he was. At the edge of the square. Heart in his throat. The faint sound of the music tuning in the background.

You stepped up to him like it was nothing. Like he didn’t look like a man one second away from bolting.

Shane cleared his throat. Looked somewhere near your shoulder — safer than your eyes.

“I’m not… a very good dancer,” he muttered, already bracing for rejection. “You’d be better off with someone else.” A final attempt at getting you to find someone else.

His hand hovered awkwardly before he placed it — tentative — against your waist. His fingers twitched like he expected you to flinch. Or laugh. Or call him out for the way he couldn’t quite meet your gaze.

“…Is this alright?”

It came out quieter than he meant it to. Almost soft. He hated how much he meant it.

This wasn’t like the usual Flower Festival routine. Where he danced with Emily because it was easy, expected. Where he could hide behind beer and bitterness and nobody expected more. But now… now it was you. And you were standing here, patient and steady, like maybe you didn’t mind the mess he was.

He glanced down, throat dry.

He wanted to ask you why. Why you kept trying. Why you weren’t tired of the snide comments or the mornings he looked like hell or the days he couldn’t even look in a mirror. Why, after everything, you still looked at him like he mattered.

But he didn’t ask. He couldn’t.

He just stood there — stiff and uncomfortable in his own skin — heart punching against his ribs like it didn’t know this wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

And God, he wished he’d had a drink. Just one. Just enough to loosen the knot in his chest. But he couldn’t. Not anymore. Not in front of you.

So instead, Shane exhaled slowly. Focused on the music starting up. And for once — just once — he let himself be where he was.

With you.

Even if he didn’t understand why.