YARA
Dean sweeps me over the threshold of our room at the estate, my dress still trailing silk and orange blossom, and the door falls shut behind us with a soft, final click that seals away the whole loud, glittering day.
He lowers me to my feet with agonizing slowness, as though releasing me even an inch too fast might shatter something between us. Neither of us moves. We stand in the candlelight, chests still rising too fast from the reception, from the dancing, from hours of being watched by every eye in Savannah.
"Hi," Dean murmurs, his voice dropping low, almost bashful.
"Hi." I laugh, breathless, nerves and joy so tangled I cannot tell them apart anymore.
He should be different tonight - guarded, careful, the way he was at the engagement dinner. But whatever walls he built then
