Page 129 of What We Become

“That you can see.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

I smile into my glass. “You did really well today.”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she traces the wet edge of her glass with one finger. The band’s guitarist slides into a mournful little run that makes the whole room seem to lean toward it.

“I felt insane for about the first two hours,” she says finally. “Then I felt normal. Then I felt weird for feeling normal.” She huffs a soft laugh. “Trauma is so elegant.”

“It sure is.”

I shift closer until our knees touch under the bar, and she leans into the contact.

“I’m so proud of you for refusing to shrink,” I tell her.

Sage can take brutality better than gentleness. Or maybe not better—just with fewer visible aftershocks.

“I poured coffee and cleaned up after people who can’t be bothered putting their dirty cutlery on their empty plates.”

“You returned to the place he used to gain access to you. And you did it like a badass.”

She rolls her eyes. “Says you.” She reaches over and steals the orange slice from my glass. Eats it without apology. I let her because I’d let her steal anything—my drink, my heart, every slice of fruit for the rest of my life.

“Dance with me.”

She quirks her brow. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, baby girl. Dance with me.”

She finishes her drink. Sets the glass down with a click. “Okay.”

The floor is small and dark and the band is playing a song slow enough to live in. I pull her in and we move. One hand at her waist. The other holding hers against my chest where she can feel my heartbeat if she wants to.

She fits there like she was built for slow songs and low light, one hand in mine, the other sliding up to rest against my shoulder. The room keeps moving around us—boots on wood, laughter, the clink of glasses—but the center narrows fast.

Sage looks up at me with that familiar, guarded amusement, like she still can’t believe this is a real thing she’s allowed to have. A man bringing her somewhere ordinary. A dance floor that doesn’t lead anywhere ugly. Music without threat in it.

“So this is how you schmoozed all your girls before me, huh?” she asks.

My brow furrows. “All?”

Her hands slide up to loop behind my neck as she bounces her shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess I was just noticing how smooth you are with women. I mean, it makes sense—look at you, you’re stunning and so damn kind and⁠—”

“Wait. Is this about Val?”

“What? No. Even I can tell Val was more interested in me than she was in you. It’s more . . .” She looks over my shoulder. “The women here openly stare at you—like I’m not even standing right here. And I don’t know, I guess I was wondering how many you’ve brought here. How many you’ve danced with like this.”

She asks like it’s a simple curiosity. It isn’t. The fear underneath is that she’s one in a line, that this is a performance I’ve perfected, that the gentleness she gets from me is something I hand out like business cards.

I slow us to almost stillness, my hand tightening at her waist. “Hey.” I wait until she meets my eyes. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever brought to this place. And I wish I could tell you there was never another woman before, but I can’t do that. I can tell you that no woman has ever seen me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone hoping he’s enough.”

Her breath catches, and I know I’ve found the real thing underneath the deflection. She looks away first, toward the band, but her fingers curl tighter at my neck.

“That’s not fair,” she murmurs. “You can’t say things like that.”