Frankie hated weddings. He’d spent the last hour leaning against the mahogany bar, nursing a whiskey and nodding politely at people whose names he’d forget in five minutes. His suit felt tight across his shoulders, he was used to flight suits and tactical gear, not starch and silk, and the thumping bass of the music was starting to give him a goddamn headache.

He was about to call it a night when he saw you. You were sitting on the far edge of the dance floor, tucked away from the main swirl of bodies. You looked beautiful, sure, but it was the expression on your face that caught him. You were watching the couple in the center of the floor with a look of pure longing. Your fingers were drumming a restless rhythm on the armrests of your wheelchair, your shoulders swaying just a fraction to the beat. You wanted to be out there. You wanted it bad. And yet, people were just fluttering past you like you were part of the furniture.

Frankie felt a familiar tug in his chest,that protective, "fuck that" instinct that usually kicked in mid-flight. He drained the rest of his whiskey, the burn hitting the back of his throat just right, and set the glass down with a definitive clack.

He didn't hesitate. He cut through the crowd, dodging a drunk bridesmaid and a wandering flower girl, until he was standing right in front of you. He didn't look down at you he leaned in, meeting your eyes with that crooked, effortless grin that had probably gotten him out of a dozen court-martials.

"You look like you're having way too much fun over here all by yourself," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that cut through the music. "Mind if I steal a dance?"

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. You gave a small, self-deprecating laugh and gestured vaguely at the chair. "I’d love to. Really. But I can't actually dance. My legs don't exactly get the memo."

Frankie’s smile didn't fade. It only softened, becoming something warmer, something more personal. He reached out, offering his hand, palm up.

"Who said anything about your legs?" he asked.

"There’s a hell of a lot more ways to dance than just moving your feet, sweetheart. You just gotta trust the pilot."

The sincerity in his eyes was a dare you couldn't refuse. You placed your hand in his, and the moment your fingers closed over his calloused palm, he was moving.

He didn't just stand there, he took charge of the space. With his left hand firmly gripping the handle of your chair and his right hand locked with yours, he began to move you in time with the mid-tempo swing of the song. He spun you with a light, practiced touch, letting the momentum of the chair do the work. You gasped as the world blurred for a second, a genuine laugh bubbling up in your throat.

"See?" he chuckled, his face just inches from yours as he brought you back around. "Navigational control."

He started moving his body to the rhythm, his boots catching the beat on the hardwood, while he encouraged you to move with him. He held both your hands now, pulling you slightly forward and then pushing back, creating a flow that felt like rising and falling on an updraft. You started to let go of the self-consciousness, your arms moving in sync with his, your head tilting back as you finally felt the music instead of just hearing it.

Frankie was relentless and playful, pushing the chair in wide, graceful arcs across the floor, dodging other couples like he was navigating a mountain pass. He was grinning, his eyes locked on yours, watching the light come back into your face. By the time the song reached its end, you were both breathless, your chest heaving with exertion and pure, unadulterated joy.

As the final notes faded out, Frankie slowed the chair to a gentle stop, still holding your hand, his thumb tracing small circles over your knuckles. He was panting slightly, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his forehead.

"Holy shit," you breathed out, your face flushed and your heart racing.

Frankie wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

"Let me get us something to drink," he whispered, just as breathless.