Page 136 of Every Shattered Note
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re barefoot.”
He shrugs like it's obvious.“Shoes slowed me down.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m useful.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I’ve been cocky since the day I was born.”
Before I can fire back, the band slips into something slower.It starts with a wistful piano and threads into an aching melody that feels like memory.The lyrics hit a few seconds later—soft, nostalgic, the kind of song that only lives on vinyl and in people’s hearts.
Dexter glances toward the dance floor, then back at me.
“Dance with me.”
I blink.“Now?”I glance around the room, roll my eyes.“I’m working.”
“Sure,” he says, his voice dipped in mischief, “but no one will notice.Promise.”
The ballroom’s still buzzing—plates clinking, the bride’s grandmother quietly sobbing into a linen napkin over her third glass of champagne.Staff moves like background noise, carrying dessert trays and refilling glasses.
But none of it registers.Not when Dexter Vaughn is standing here, holding out his hand with that look that always makes breathing hard.Something in me answers before my brain even joins the conversation.
I slip my fingers into his.
He leads me off to the side, just far enough that we’re out of the spotlight.We aren’t on the dance floor.We don’t need to be.This moment doesn’t belong to the room—it belongs to us.
His hand finds my waist, his palm warm through the silk of my dress.His other hand cradles mine, thumb brushing across my knuckles like he’s learning the shape of my quiet.
We start to move.
Slow.Unhurried.This moment is ours.His chest grazes mine with every sway, and the rest of the night dissolves into something far away and irrelevant.It’s not about the timeline or the toast order or the vendor invoice I still need to sign.It’s this.This borrowed sliver of calm where it’s just him and me, breathing in sync.
His fingers tighten around mine—enough to sayI’m here.Don’t let go.
This is his favorite part.The moment in the night where the noise dips, the tension lifts, and we find each other in the middle of everything.We’ve done this every night since our first date.Doesn’t matter where we are—at an event, in his living room, barefoot on the hardwood floor of his penthouse with the stereo humming low.There’s always a dance.Always this quiet ritual.
And then he kisses me.
Not rushed.Not for show.But deep and sure and impossibly tender.
His lips part mine like a vow, and I melt into him.The music swells.My fingers curl into the back of his shirt, holding on like it’s the only real thing left in the room.
He pulls back just enough to whisper, forehead resting against mine.“You want to know when I fell in love with you?”
My breath catches.
“It wasn’t during some big moment.Not the night we kissed.It was later—watching you fix place cards while chewing on a pen cap and muttering about the seating chart like it was a war strategy.”His voice roughens at the edges, like he's balancing on the edge of something unspoken.“It was how you cared about every detail like it mattered.Like people deserved for things to be beautiful, even when they didn’t notice.That’s what did it.”
My throat burns.“Dex ...”
He cups my jaw, eyes burning through every shield I’ve ever built.Like he’s seeing the truth I’ve spent years pretending isn’t there—the cracks, the guarded edges, the parts of me I keep hidden even from myself.
“I fell in love with you because you make rooms come alive,” he says quietly, his thumb tracing the corner of my mouth.“And then somehow forget that you’re the most captivating part of them.”
He leans in, kisses the tip of my nose—a soft, unguarded thing that feels like a confession in motion.
