Dawson
For a moment after she nods, neither of us moves.
Not because it’s awkward—though there’s a bit of that too—but because it feels like something delicate has just settled between us. And if we rush this, we might knock it over. The feeling hangs in the air, stretching out through the space between heartbeats.
“Well,” I say eventually, glancing around the room, “this is usually the part where people celebrate with champagne.”
Grace snorts, and her lips turn up at the corners. “Or maybe pumpkin pie.”
That pulls a grin out of me before I have a chance to stop it. Her mother's innocent question that was meant to break the ice that night has somehow become a playful moment that didn't seem all that fake to me.
I shift my weight, suddenly very aware of how close we’re standing. I c
