The reception was glowing.

Candles flickered in glass jars across white-clothed tables, fairy lights twisted around beams overhead, and laughter spilled through the warm night air like champagne. You were still barefoot from ditching your heels hours ago, your bridesmaid dress swaying softly around your legs as you swirled through the crowd. Your cousin—the bride—had just vanished into a sea of hugs and sparkles, and the music was louder now. Wilder. Everyone buzzed with celebration.

But you weren’t thinking about the cake, or the toast, or the bouquet toss.

You were thinking about him.

You’d noticed him during the ceremony, standing tall beside the groom, suit perfectly tailored, curls soft under the sun. Jude. You’d heard his name in passing—“That’s Jude, he plays football, one of the groom’s friends”—but it hadn’t hit you until your eyes met across the dance floor that something about him was going to matter more than it should.

He was older. Not too much—but enough to make you feel it in the way he looked at you. Like you were off-limits. Or should be.

And yet… he hadn’t stopped glancing at you.

So now, under the golden haze of fairy lights and the soft pulse of some slow R&B remix, it was just the two of you. The dance floor still packed, but suddenly, it felt like no one else existed. His hand brushed yours, barely-there. And then again. Until finally, slowly, he slid his fingers through yours and pulled you in.

His touch was warm. Grounding. Careful.

You moved together without speaking, hips swaying lazily to the beat, your hands resting on his shoulders while his stayed light on your waist. You could feel the heat of them even through the fabric. Your chest brushed his every time the song shifted. Every time you breathed.

No one was watching. Or if they were, they didn’t matter. Because he was only looking at you.

“This okay?” he asked, voice low near your ear.

You nodded, too quietly for words.

He smiled, barely.

The song changed again—slower, deeper—and Jude didn’t let go. If anything, his hand on your waist pressed just slightly firmer. Not possessive. Just sure. And when his fingers traced a slow circle over the fabric at your back, you felt it—like your body already trusted his, before your mind could catch up.

The music played on. People danced and laughed and spun in circles. But you stayed there, in that still, magnetic pull between you and him. Dancing. Breathing.

Not saying what you were both starting to feel.

Not yet.