The town hall is glowing.

Strings of old fairy lights crisscross the wooden beams, buzzing faintly, casting a soft gold hue over the crowd. There’s warmth here that doesn’t come from the old heaters by the walls—it comes from the people, the music, the way everyone seems to breathe a little easier for one night. Snow is piling up gently outside the windows, muffling the world beyond, but in here, time feels like it’s been put on pause.

The band plays something fast and loose, half-country, half-forgotten. Laughter bursts from the corners of the room, boots stomp to the beat, someone drops a glass and nobody cares.

Joel’s off to the side, leaning against a pillar with a cup of something strong in his hand—probably stronger than he needs. His coat is shrugged off and draped nearby, his sleeves rolled to the forearm. He looks tired, like he always does, like the year’s clinging to him even as the town tries to shake it off.

And then he sees you.

You’re right in the thick of it. The dance floor. Laughing like you mean it, like nothing’s weighing on you, like you’re not surviving, you’re living. You’ve got that look in your eye—the kind people used to have before everything fell apart.

He watches as you spin, hand in someone else’s, then someone new a moment later, your head thrown back, the music in your bones. You don’t move like someone afraid of the next day. You move like tonight’s all that matters.

You haven’t looked his way once.

Joel stays still, unseen in the shadows. And he tells himself he’s just people-watching.

But it’s a lie.

He’s watching you.