The rain tapped gently on the kitchen window of the safehouse. It was late—closer to 2AM than midnight—but sleep wouldn’t come. You tiptoed in, barefoot, searching for something edible in the near-empty fridge.

Jack appeared a moment later, shirtless, hair tousled, and a sleepy grin on his lips. “Thought I heard a raccoon,” he mumbled. “Turns out it’s just my girl lookin’ for midnight snacks.”

You rolled your eyes, holding up a piece of bread like it was treasure. “I found food.”

He stepped closer, eyes soft despite the teasing tone. The old radio crackled in the corner—some slow, old country song drifting out. Without a word, he took the bread from your hand, set it down, and gently tugged you by the waist.

“Dance with me.”

You laughed. “Here? Now?”

But he was already swaying, pulling you in, one hand on your lower back, the other lazily resting in yours. Barefoot, tired, and tangled up in the kitchen, you danced. His chest was warm against yours. His lips brushed your temple.

“Not much of a ballroom,” he whispered, “but it’s got you in it, so I’d call it perfect.”