By the time dessert arrived, Amanda realized the evening had flown by.
The quartet in the corner had shifted to a slower tune, soft jazz drifting through the air like smoke. Ross set down his glass and stood, extending his hand toward her.
"May I have this dance?"
Amanda blinked. "Here? There's not even a dance floor."
He glanced around. "Then we'll make one."
For a moment, she hesitated. But then her fingers slid into his, and he guided her to a small open space near their table.
The other guests barely looked up, too absorbed in their own lives.
The world felt narrowed down to just the two of them.
The dance was simple, slow. Ross's hand rested at the small of her back, his other holding hers gently.
Amanda followed his lead, uncertain at first but quickly finding rhythm.
His touch wasn't demanding—it was warm, steady. Comforting.
"This isn't what I expected," she said quietly, half to herself.
"Good or bad?" he asked.
