Chapter 9 #2
*It's practical,* she told herself. *We can't dance in the dark. He's just being sensible.*
But the flutter in her stomach disagreed.
She made herself keep walking. Down the main path, past the wine shop with its hand-painted sign, past the barn where they stored the barrels. The ground beneath her feet shifted from gravel to packed earth as she approached the bridge over the creek, then to soft moss as she entered the forest.
The grove swallowed her like a held breath.
Inside, the lanterns were everywhere—tiny glass orbs strung between branches, casting pools of soft golden light across the clearing. The effect was… intimate. Private. Like stepping into a world where only two people existed.
And standing in the center of that world, watching her approach with an expression she couldn't read, was Thallos.
He'd dressed up. Not formally, just a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the hem tucked into a wide leather belt, but it was more effort than she'd seen him make before.
His hair was damp, like he'd recently bathed, and there was something almost vulnerable about the way he held himself. Careful. Uncertain.
*He's nervous too,* she realized.
The thought was absurdly comforting.
"You came."
His voice was soft. The grove seemed to absorb the sound, wrapping around them like a blanket.
"I said I would."
"I know. I just…" He shrugged, a gesture that was meant to look casual and didn't quite manage it. "I wasn't sure."
Neither was she, if she was being honest. She'd changed her mind a dozen times on the walk over. She'd come up with increasingly elaborate excuses to turn around. She'd very nearly texted him from the end of the Sandersons' driveway to claim a sudden bout of food poisoning.
But she was here now.
She looked around the grove, taking in the lanterns, the cleared space in the center, the soft moss underfoot. "You didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to." He moved toward her, then stopped himself, maintaining a careful distance. "The grove is… it's important to me. I wanted it to look its best."
There was something in his voice, some weight behind the words, that made her want to ask questions. But his expression suggested he wasn't ready to answer them, so she let it go.
"It's beautiful," she said instead. And meant it.
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "I brought wine, if you want some. To settle the nerves."
"My nerves are perfectly settled."
He raised an eyebrow.
"They're mostly settled," she amended. "Reasonably settled. Settled-adjacent."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "So wine would be helpful."
"Wine would be extremely helpful, yes."
He gestured toward a blanket spread near the edge of the clearing, where a bottle and two glasses waited. It was thoughtful. Considerate. The kind of careful attention that made her chest ache in a way she didn't want to examine too closely.
They sat, and he poured, and for a moment there was only the quiet sounds of the grove—birds settling for the night, leaves rustling overhead, the distant hum of insects in the meadow beyond.
"You don't have to do this," he said finally. "The dance, the lessons, any of it. We could tell the committee I twisted my ankle. No one would question it."
"Satyrs can twist their ankles?"
"We can pretend." He met her eyes over the rim of his glass. "I don't want you to feel trapped."
Trapped.
The word settled between them. She turned it over in her mind, examining it from all angles.
She had felt trapped, hadn't she? At the committee meeting, when Ellie nominated her before she could object. At the vineyard, the first time she'd been alone with him. At his cabin yesterday, when he'd kissed her and her body had responded before her brain could intervene.
But this—sitting here in the soft golden light, with the wine warming her throat and him watching her like she was something precious—this didn't feel like a trap.
This felt like a choice.
"The festival is important to the town," she said slowly. "And I said I'd help. So I'm going to help."
"Even if it means dancing with me?"
"Even if." She took a breath. Let it out. "Though I should warn you—I really am terrible. The bride's brother's story wasn't an exaggeration."
"I don't care how terrible you are."
"You say that now."
"I say that always, little flower." His voice had gone softer. More serious. "I've watched you walk into that grove like you were expecting it to hurt you. I've watched you flinch every time I get too close. And I've watched you come back anyway, even though you're scared."
Her throat tightened. "I'm not—"
"You are. And that's okay. But I need you to understand something.
" He set down his glass and turned to face her fully.
"Whatever happens here—whatever you decide you want—I'm not going to hurt you.
I'm not going to push. I'm not going to make you feel foolish or used or small. That's not who I am."
The words hit her like a wave, stealing her breath.
Because she'd been waiting for this. Waiting for him to show his true colors, to prove that all the patience and gentleness was just a mask for something darker. Waiting for him to demand something she couldn't give.
And instead he was sitting here, in the grove he'd filled with lights for her, offering her an out.
*Trust is a choice, not a surrender.*
Winnie's voice echoed in her memory.
"Okay," she heard herself say.
He blinked. "Okay?"
She set down her own glass and rose to her feet. The sundress swirled around her ankles as she moved to the center of the clearing, where the lantern light was brightest and the moss was softest.
She turned to face him and extended her hand.
"Teach me to dance."
His face transformed. Not the smooth charm she'd come to expect, but something rawer. Something that made her heart stutter in her chest.
He crossed the distance between them and took her hand in his.
His palm was warm and slightly rough, the hand of someone who worked with earth and vines and growing things. His fingers closed around hers with careful pressure—firm enough to hold, gentle enough to release.
"I'll try not to break your hooves," she said.
His smile was like the sunrise.
"I'll take my chances."