Tangled In Time

When The Music Stops

The soft strains of jazz swelled as we stopped, the polished floor cool beneath my bare heels. Blake's hand rested lightly on my waist, the touch almost reverent, as if he were waiting for me to pull away. His other hand clasped mine, his fingers firm but gentle, and I couldn't help but notice the steadiness in his movements compared to my own wine-fuelled hesitations.

"I warned you," I said softly, my voice teasing but unsure. "I'm not much of a dancer."

"I don't believe you," he replied, his tone equally low but carrying an edge of certainty. "You've been keeping up with everything else so far."

He guided me into a slow step, and for a moment, I was too focused on where my feet landed to notice the rest of the room. The sound of the music wrapped around us, the smooth brass and steady rhythm creating a bubble of sound in the vastness of the ballroom.

"You're leading," I pointed out, tilting my head up to meet his gaze.

"That's the point," he said simply, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

The first turn he guided me through was hesitant on my part, but Blake didn't falter. His movements were deliberate, his steps certain. The second turn was smoother, my muscles relaxing into the rhythm of the music and the easy sway of his hold.

The wine hummed through my veins, loosening my inhibitions just enough for me to laugh softly as he spun me out. "You've done this before," I accused lightly, the warmth in my chest spreading to my voice.

"Once or twice," he admitted, his grip steady as he pulled me back into him. The sudden closeness made my breath catch, my hand pressing lightly against his chest for balance. His warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt, steady and grounding.

As the music shifted into something slower, Blake's hold softened. We weren't dancing anymore—not really. We were swaying, the rhythm barely a suggestion now, and I realised my head had dipped closer to his shoulder. His hand on my waist tightened slightly, a silent reassurance that I didn't have to move away.

"Better than an Old Fashioned?" he murmured, the words barely audible over the music.

I smiled, my cheek brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt. "Much better."

Blake's breath was warm against my hair as he let out a quiet laugh, his chest rising and falling beneath my hand. The weight of the room, the music, and the moment pressed against me, and I let myself lean into it, into him.

The song began to fade, but Blake didn't let go. His hand slid from my waist to the small of my back, pulling me just a fraction closer. "You've had three glasses of wine," he said, his tone soft but edged with the faintest hint of amusement. "Should I take the opportunity to ask you to stay and marry me now?"

I lifted my head, meeting his steady gaze. My pulse quickened—not from surprise, but from the reality of his words. He had been clear before: if I stayed, this was what he would want. Still, hearing it now, under the warmth of his touch and the weight of the moment, felt different. More real.

"I thought you'd wait until the wine had fully kicked in," I teased, my voice lighter than the storm of thoughts behind it.

Blake's lips twitched into the faintest smile, but his eyes remained serious. "Damn," he said, his voice softening even further, "I really thought the wine would change your mind."

The vulnerability in his words unravelled something in me. I leaned up and kissed him, the warmth of his lips meeting mine with a tenderness that made my chest ache. When I pulled back, my voice was quiet but certain. "If I could stay, I'd marry you tomorrow."