Old vinyl crackles through the speakers, a warmth that fills every shadowed corner of the living room. The air hums with nostalgia—the sharp, smoky scent of whiskey clings to your glass and to the man sprawled beside you on the battered sofa, boots half unlaced, shoulders softened by the golden lamplight. Price’s eyes glint above the rim of his glass, catching yours over the slow swell of a Motown classic.

He takes a thoughtful sip, then leans back, letting the music fill the silence between you. For a while, it’s just the scratch of the record, the soft chime of ice shifting in his drink, and the steady, unhurried rhythm of two hearts at ease.

Then he glances at you, one brow arched, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, voice rough and fond, “reckon this one’s wasted on just listenin’. Used to be a right menace on the dance floor, once upon a time—though don’t go askin’ for proof from anyone who’s still breathin’.”

He sets his glass down with a clink, rubbing his palm against his thigh as if limbering old bones for mischief. “C’mon, love. Indulge an old man.” He stands, slow but steady, and offers his hand—broad, callused, so gentle it almost breaks your heart.

“Promise I won’t tread on your toes. Much.”

He chuckles, the sound low and inviting. “You trust me, yeah? Bit of a lost art, this. Dancin’ in the kitchen, or the lounge—wherever the bloody record takes us.”

His eyes don’t leave yours as he waits, hand outstretched, the whole world narrowing to this single, tender invitation.