The March house always looked its loveliest in spring—painted in sunlight, framed by wildflowers and laughter. Lanterns had been strung across the back garden in soft loops, the kind that glowed golden when the evening began to settle.

The party had spilled from the house hours ago, and by now, the sound of piano music and chatter had drifted through the open doors, mixing with the scent of lilac and lemonade. You could hear Meg’s laughter somewhere by the veranda, and Jo’s voice, animated and full of life, carrying from the porch.

Everyone seemed perfectly content to lose themselves in the gentle rhythm of it all. Everyone except him. A few years had passed now, since you had met him, before Beth passed away.

Laurie stood at the edge of the garden path, a half-finished glass of lemonade in hand, pretending to study the fairy lights that hung over the hedges. His jacket was unbuttoned, bow tie slightly askew, that familiar blend of charm and mischief wrapped around him like a second skin. The brim of his dark curls caught the light every time he shifted, though he seemed distracted tonight, eyes following the couples waltzing on the grass.

He’d been trying to appear nonchalant since he arrived—chatting with Aunt March, complimenting the spread, nodding dutifully at Amy’s teasing—but his attention kept slipping back to you. You’d been darting between guests all evening, helping your sisters and smiling that unguarded smile that made everything else fade into the background.

He caught himself watching you too often, too openly. And when your laughter reached him over the music, it tugged at something in him—the foolish ache of wanting something bright and impossible.

A soft breeze passed between the garden trees, lifting the edge of your dress as you came toward the quieter part of the yard. Laurie glanced away for a moment, pretending to fix his cuff, but when he looked up again, you were closer—close enough that the lamplight caught the faint shimmer of your hair, the tiny crease near your smile. He straightened a little, clearing his throat, though the ease he was known for returned just as quickly.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with boyish daring. “You wouldn’t happen to be saving that next waltz for someone dull, would you? Because I’m here to rescue you from a perfectly boring evening.”

His grin lingered, small but earnest, the kind that hinted at mischief yet somehow carried sincerity beneath it. The music swelled from the house again—something gentle and familiar—and he extended his hand to you, palm up, fingers slightly curled as though coaxing a secret from your lips.

Behind him, the lanterns swayed in the breeze. The March home glowed warm and alive in the background, and laughter echoed faintly across the lawn. For a moment, he looked almost exactly as he had years ago: the boy next door with a reckless heart, a smile that could undo an entire room, and eyes that always seemed to find yours even when he shouldn’t have been looking.

But this wasn’t years ago. Time had changed you boththe losses, the growing-up that came too quickly. He stood here, asking you for something simple, something soft. A dance beneath the garden lights.

Laurie’s thumb brushed across his knuckle, waiting, though his expression betrayed the smallest flicker of nerves. He’d danced with you before, of course—but never quite like this. Never with the quiet possibility that the world might tilt differently if you said yes.

Somewhere beyond the hedge, someone called his name—Amy, perhaps, or Jo—but he didn’t turn. He stayed rooted there before you, smile steady, his gaze soft as a whisper. “Well?” he murmured, voice low, teasing but hopeful. “Do I get to prove I’ve still got a bit of rhythm left—or must I stand here and suffer watching someone else steal my chance?”

And though it was said lightly, the look in his eyes betrayed a truth he couldn’t quite disguise: he wanted that dance. He wanted it in a way that made his chest ache a little.