The band was kicking up a dust storm of sound, a fiddle sawing wild and fast, the drums punching the beat straight through the floorboards. I caught her eye across the room — blonde hair braided neat, hat tilted just enough to make her look dangerous and sweet all at once. She smiled like she already knew how the night was gonna end.

I didn’t think about it. I just moved, boots thudding heavy on the wood, tipping my hat with a little nod like ma’am, if you’d be so kind. She laughed — soft, musical — and slid her hand into mine like it belonged there.

The first step was always a little awkward, two bodies figuring each other out, but damn if she didn’t catch my rhythm quick. Left, right, quick-quick, slow. Her boots brushing the dust, skirts swaying just enough to hypnotize. I could feel her warmth through my shirt, her fingers curled against mine, steady as the stars outside.

She wasn’t shy. She leaned in close, close enough I caught the faint scent of wildflowers and whiskey. I led, but it wasn’t about control — it was a dance, a pull, a silent way of saying I see you without a single word passing between us. Her laugh bubbled up again when I spun her, boots scraping a circle on the ground, and when she came back to me, we were breathing the same breath.

The song wasn’t long, but time stretched out, lazy and golden, like a summer afternoon that refused to die. I didn’t even know the band had stopped playing ‘til I heard the scattered claps, felt the way she squeezed my hand just once before slipping away into the crowd, leaving nothing but the ghost of a smile and the memory of her fingers tangled with mine.

I just stood there a second, hat low over my eyes, heart knocking a little harder than before.

Hell.

I reckon I was already two-stepping my way straight into trouble.