Oliver Wood's dance moves

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

a forest - the cure 

Come closer and seeSee into the treesFind the girlWhile you can.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver stands frozen in front of the dormitory mirror, eyes unfocused, trying—and failing—for the fourth time to tie his tie properly. He doesn't know why, but tonight it just won't sit right. His fingers are clumsy, his movements not precise enough. Eventually, he gives up and settles for the imperfect knot, thinking vaguely of his father, who probably would've scolded him for how sloppy it looks.

With a sigh, he slips into his suit jacket, brushing down the fabric as if that will make him feel better. Behind him, the twins and Lee are bickering loudly about who gets to pick the music once the professor-approved orchestra packs up and leaves.

He reaches for a bottle of cologne on the dresser, sprays once, then takes a step back to check himself in the mirror. Sharp suit. Hair neat. Tie... passable.

In the reflection, he catches sight of George walking past. George pauses, then steps up behind him and rests a hand on his left shoulder, giving him a lopsided grin.

"Look at you. All handsome," he says.

Oliver rolls his eyes but smiles faintly, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

George catches it. "Come on. I'm sorry about Zora. I didn't know that bloody idiot Pucey had already asked her."

Oliver sighs, waving a dismissive hand. "It's fine. She probably wouldn't have said yes anyway."

It's fine.

It's not fine.

He hasn't slept all night, too haunted by the image of Zora on Pucey's arm. Too haunted by his own cowardice, by sharp sting of regret. Too haunted by feelings he doesn't understand, doesn't know how to hold. 

There's a war raging in him—one he doesn't know how to win. 

"You know that's not true, Ollie. Don't lie to yourself," George says softly.

Oliver laughs under his breath, but it's hollow. "Look at us. Spending the night with the wrong people."

George squeezes his shoulder a little tighter and throws him a knowing smile. "All the more reason to make it count."

George claps his hands, spinning toward Fred and Lee. "Alright, that red dress is truly atrocious on you, Lee."

Lee sighs, deadpan. "I don't have a choice. If I don't wear it, Fred's sending a picture to my mum, and I'll probably get disowned."

Fred grins, proud of himself. "Too bad. Actions have consequences."

"Okay, come on—group photo time!" Fred adds, thrilled.

"Is that really necessary?" Oliver asks, eyebrow raised.

Fred's glare answers the question for him. Oliver sighs and steps toward the others in defeat.

"Wait, I'm grabbing Ron," Fred says, disappearing out the door.

He returns moments later with Ron. Everyone goes silent when they notice the robe he is wearing. 

"Goodness, Weasley—" The words leave Oliver's mouth before he can stop himself.

Ron lifts a hand, face already red. "Don't. Say. Anything. It's already humiliating enough. I lost my pride and probably won't have a date for the rest of my life."

They all try—and fail—not to burst out laughing.

The four of them line up, arms slung over each other's shoulders, already laughing. Ron stands in front, positioning the camera.

"Say firewhiskey!" Fred yells.

"Firewhiskey!" they all echo, grinning like idiots.

The shutter clicks. Ron hands the photo over and Fred snatches it up, watching the moving image develop.

"Blimey," Fred says, eyes lighting up, "we look fine."

George peeks over his shoulder. "Speak for yourself. I look like I haven't slept in a month."

They all laugh again and Oliver feels something warm in his chest. He forgets the knot in his tie, forgets Zora. 

Then Fred claps his hands. "Alright, gentlemen, time to make our finest entrance."

Lee smooths his dress shirt and gives Oliver a teasing grin as he heads for the door. "Mary's waiting for you, lover boy."

Oliver stiffens slightly. His face stays neutral, but something in his chest sinks.

Mary.

Of course.

After the terrible failure with Zora and the endless night he spent torturing himself, Oliver—following George's advice—finally asks Mary Bennet to be his date for the ball. The poor girl had already asked him, maybe even before anyone else. She was thrilled. 

Mary is nice. Pretty, too. Smart. Good at school. Long red hair and freckles. She's probably been in love with Oliver since first year.

And when he saw her eyes light up as he asked if she's still available, he instantly regretted it. But he told himself it's probably smarter to let things be than to turn her down a second time.

Oliver doesn't say anything—just nods and forces a smile. The boys file out one by one, their laughter fading down the hallway. Oliver lingers in front of the mirror, alone for a second, staring at the tired, restless version of himself staring back.

This night better end quickly, he thinks.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

When Oliver and the boys arrive in front of the Great Hall, he already wants to leave. He tugs at his tie. It's too hot. Too many people. He doesn't want to be here. Doesn't want to spend the whole night watching her with him.

Fred spots Angelina across the room and waves at the boys before walking toward her. He takes her hand and spins her around. Oliver tries to move George in another direction to spare him the sight. 

Lee heads off to join Kate, and pretty quickly, Oliver finds himself alone—George having disappeared toward Alicia. Neither of them found a proper date, so they'd agreed to go as friends.

Oliver leans back against the wall, hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes drift to the hallway leading to the Tower, and he wonders how long it would take to sneak away—and whether he could do it before Mary shows up and sees him.

He sighs and scans the crowd. Everyone's smiling, laughing, blushing. So much joy, it almost makes him sick right now.

He closes his eyes for a second, letting himself think about his sister. About how awful her Christmas Eve must be. He imagines her sitting alone across from her father. Her mother alone in her bedroom. That kind of silence that feels foreign.

God, how guilty he feels for not being there with her.

Oliver jumps slightly when he feels a delicate hand touch his arm. He straightens and finds himself face to face with Mary, smiling at him.

"Hi, Oliver," she says softly.

Mary—with her hair perfectly tied back into a low bun, a soft pink flower tucked in. Mary in her pale yellow dress. Mary and her smile. And her hand still resting on his arm. 

God, what is he doing. 

Oliver doesn't know what to do. Should he do like Fred? Take her hand? Tell her she looks beautiful?

"You alright?" she adds, seeing he still hasn't responded.

"Yeah, sorry. Hi. You look..." he pauses, unsure what to say. "Nice."

She seems confused at first but then smiles, and he catches the way her cheeks warm. "Thank you. You look handsome in that suit."

He gives her an awkward smile. Then he follows her movement as she reaches up, takes the flower from her hair, and—without asking—tucks it into the front pocket of his jacket, just over his heart. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't move.

"There. Now we match," she says with a sweet smile, her hand lingering just a few seconds too long against his chest. He simply nods, trying his best to smile back.

"Come on, let's go see the hall," she says, taking his hand.

He nods and follows, trying to push down the discomfort... and the feeling of waiting.

Waiting for her. If he could just see her. For just a second.

He walks just behind Mary, letting her lead him. But just before they step through the Great Hall doors— he sees her. As if his prayer was heard. 

Zora is coming down the staircase, her dress delicately lifted in her right hand, her left tucked into the crook of Viktor Krum's arm. He leans in to whisper something, and she laughs.That kind of laugh that scrunches her eyes until they disappear completely, leaving nothing but joy on her face.

Her hair is the same as always—unbrushed, a little wild. Her dress is simple but stunning, hugging her waist before flowing freely down to her feet. No jewelry, no accessories. 

Just her. Her and that dress. Her and that laugh. Her and her hair and—

"Hey... you okay?" Mary's voice cuts through, soft but a little concerned.

Oliver blinks and turns to her, a flicker of guilt in his chest. He nods quickly, maybe too quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

They step into the Great Hall. Oliver doesn't register anything— all the changes, the towering crystal chandeliers, the sea of glittering students, the soft golden lights, the music already playing, the enormous Christmas trees twinkling at the back of the stage.

They walk toward the bar. Oliver grabs a glass and downs it in one go. Then another. He hands the second one to Mary.

She takes it, smiling, oblivious to his state. "Thanks."

There's a short silence as they sip. Then she glances sideways at him. "You know... I was kind of surprised when you asked me again."

He stiffens slightly but doesn't look at her. She keeps talking. "I mean—surprised, but happy, of course. Really happy. I wasn't sure you'd... you know."

She trails off. Takes a sip. Looks down at her shoes like she regrets saying it.

What the hell is he supposed to say? He can't tell her the truth. He can't say, I only asked you because the girl I wanted was already taken. He clears his throat.

"I— I don't know. I guess I just thought... we could have a nice evening."

Her face lights up, soft and warm, and it stabs something in him. Her smile widens and she blushes, and Oliver wants to disappear.

He's lying. She's making you do stupid things, he thinks. And by "she," he doesn't mean Mary.

They don't have time to say anything else that Zora and Adrian enter the Great Hall. Oliver feels his chest hurt instantly. 

Her hand is loosely put on his arm. She's walking like she'd rather be anywhere else. And Pucey—he's smiling. No, beaming, like he just won a bloody prize at the lottery. 

Oliver's entire body goes still.

Zora's lips barely move when Adrian leans toward her and says something. She doesn't laugh this time. She just rolls her eyes and looks straight ahead. Her expression unreadable. Detached.

Then she turns her head, meets his eyes. And in that instant, the entire Great Hall seems to fall away. The music, the people, the lights—it all fades into nothing.

Then, slowly, she turns her head back toward Adrian. It cuts through him more sharply than if she'd slapped him across the face.

"Do you know her?" Mary's voice rings,  quiet and curious.

He flinches. Blinks again. Breathes.

"Hmm?" he says, pretending he didn't hear her. But she's looking up at him now, expecting an answer.

"That girl. Zora Krum. With the guy from Slytherin," she clarifies. "She's beautiful."

Of course she is. She looks absolutely breathtaking. Like every time his eyes land on her. Wearing a dress or her quidditch uniform. Wearing anything, really. 

He swallows. Hard. Forces himself to look away from where Zora is now walking across the floor with Pucey, her dress swaying behind her like.

Oliver clears his throat again. "Yeah," he mutters, eyes locked on his drink. "I know her."

"And she's so good at Quidditch," Mary continues, sipping her drink. "Like—really good."

He lets out a breath that's somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. 

"She is," he says.

Mary doesn't seem to notice the shift in his tone. "I heard she aims to the Bulgarian National Team. Like her cousin."

He doesn't answer. He can't. Eyes still locked on her and Pucey. 

He watches them settle a little further down the hall.

Adrian slips his arm around her waist like he's done it a hundred times before—Zora immediately brushes it off, barely even looking at him.

Oliver doesn't stop watching.

Not during the opening waltz with the champions. Zora stands on the side, arms crossed, watching her cousin without much interest. Her expression unreadable. 

Oliver takes another drink. His third. Or fourth. He's lost count already.

He tries to focus on something else—anything else—but his gaze is pulled back like a magnet the second Adrian steps in front of Zora and offers his hand.

Then, silently, she places her hand in his. And suddenly, they're in the middle of the floor. Adrian's hand rests on her waist.

Their fingers are interlaced. They start to move.

He has to hold on to the edge of the table behind him. So tight his knuckles go white.

He doesn't even know what he's trying to stop himself from doing. Marching over there? Yelling? Pulling her away from Pucey like a jealous idiot? Like he already did ? 

Mary's saying something beside him—talking about the decorations, maybe, or the music, or who's dancing with who—but he doesn't hear a single word.

All he can hear is the pulse pounding in his ears.

He downs another drink. But it doesn't help. Not when Adrian's hand dips a little too low on Zora's waist. 

Oliver wants to punch something. Pucey's face, preferably.

"Wanna dance?" Mary asks beside him, her voice cheerful, cutting through the storm inside his chest.

He turns to her slowly. He forces a smile. "Yeah," he says, even though every part of him is screaming no.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The ball has only just begun, and Zora already wishes she were anywhere else.

She had thought this little charity operation—going with Adrian Pucey for the sake of peace—would be mildly unpleasant at worst. But it turns out to be a full disaster.

Pucey is a prat. A pompous, loud, insufferable prat.

He talks about himself non-stop. About his Quidditch "glory days" at Slytherin like he's some kind of legend. About his father's position at the Ministry. He doesn't ask a single question about her. Not one. He might as well be on a date with a mirror.

Then, of course, he asks her to dance.

It's a disaster. He's clumsy, stiff, and absolutely useless. She ends up having to lead the whole thing, whispering quiet directions under her breath so they don't look completely ridiculous.

He steps on her toes. Repeatedly. By the tenth time, she's seriously considering using her wand.

He's already had five drinks, maybe six. She can smell it on his breath. And he's starting to slur his words just slightly, leaning in closer than necessary. The alcohol doesn't make him more charming. Just louder. More oblivious.

Zora's patience thins with every passing second.

Across the room, her eyes find Angelina, dancing with Fred. Zora catches her friend's gaze and sends a silent scream for help. Angelina just raises an eyebrow in sympathy and mouths, "You chose this."

Zora rolls her eyes. She knows. She knows. And she regrets it deeply.

But what really stings—what she can't stop seeing—is what's right in front of her.

Oliver Wood. Dancing. With a girl she's never seen before.

Red hair. Pretty smile. Soft features.

She's surprised. No—shocked. Last she heard, he wasn't bringing anyone. That's what Angelina had told her. That he'd turned down everyone. And yet here he is. With her.

Zora blinks, her mind pulled back to last night. To Oliver walking toward her in the hallway, purposeful, determined. Her heart had jumped. Her breath had caught. She'd thought—maybe. Maybe he was going to ask.

Her palms had gone sweaty with the thought. But he hadn't.

He'd asked her a question. A stupid, meaningless, logistical question about Quidditch practice. Nothing more.

The disappointment had hit her like a punch to the gut. And now, watching him with that girl, it hits again. Harder.

She's beautiful, Zora thinks bitterly. Soft. Gentle. The kind of girl who brings cookies for everyone to matches. Who wears her boyfriend's number stitched on the back of her jumper. The kind of girl you introduce your parents. 

Zora hates that she can't stop looking.

And all Zora can think is—how did I not see it? How could she have been so stupid to think there might not be someone else?

She turns her attention back to Adrian. He's still talking. Merlin knows about what. He hadn't even noticed she stopped listening ten minutes ago.

"I need a drink," she says suddenly, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"We're in the middle of dancing, though, we—"

"I said I need a drink." Her voice is sharp this time. Final.

She doesn't wait for him to answer. She steps off the dance floor, lifts the hem of her dress, and walks toward the bar without looking back.

They end up staying there for almost an hour. The two of them, drinking, sitting on a chair, Adrian talking, Zora not even listening. Viktor tried to make her dance with him, she refused. Now Adrian is very much drunk.

"What's wrong with you tonight?" Adrian asks as he leans in close, his breath warm and sour against her cheek.

Zora fights the instinct to flinch—but something in her chest twists. Something between disgust and fury.

"Nothing," she replies flatly.

"You're not very chatty."

"Not much to say."

He laughs, a low sound, and leans in closer—too close—his face almost brushing her neck. "Perfect. What I've got planned for us tonight doesn't require much talking..."

She pulls away immediately, her expression turning into revulsion. "Get away from me."

But he doesn't.

Instead, he smiles. "Oh come on. Don't be like that. We're supposed to have fun, right? Why else would you come with me?" He lowers his voice. "Don't tell me it was just for the dancing?"

Zora's jaw tightens. "Fuck off, Pucey."

He laughs again, louder this time, and before she can step back, his arm snakes around her waist. He pulls her chair closer to his, his grip firm. "Fiesty, are we?"

Her stomach turns. The entire atmosphere around her feels tainted. Like the air itself is thinner. Dirty.

Zora stands up, pulling herself away from him, her chair screeching against the floor. She turns to leave, but Adrian stands up too—slightly off balance from the alcohol—and grabs her wrist hard enough to make her stumble. He pulls her toward him with a rough movement.

"Come on now. Don't be like that," he says. "We're just getting started."

"I don't want to do anything with you. Do you hear me?" she says, loud and clear. "Let me go. Now."

His smile doesn't falter. In fact, it grows. Nastier. 

His arm tightens around her waist, locking her against him, and his other hand starts to wander lower. His face leans in, close enough that she can smell the firewhisky on his breath. "Come on," he breathes. "You want this. I can tell."

Zora sucks in a sharp breath. Her heart pounds with panic and rage. She struggles, tries to twist away—but he's stronger. Too strong.

She starts to lift her leg, ready to knee him between his legs—

But she doesn't have to.

Because Adrian is suddenly pulled backward by the collar of his shirt and slammed hard against the wall beside the bar.

The entire room freeze. Zora's eyes widen as she sees who did this.

Oliver.

Breathing hard. Fuming. 

"I think she said no, Pucey," Oliver says.

He lets go of Adrian, who stumbles, arms raised like he's innocent.

"Alright, alright! Calm down, Captain," Adrian says with a drunken laugh. "No need to get all heroic."

The room has taken notice. Heads turn. People whisper. Someone gasps.

Angelina rushes toward Zora, eyes wide. "Zo? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

Zora nods once. Her voice is tight. "I'm fine." But her gaze doesn't leave Pucey.

She grabs the two nearest flutes of firewhisky from the bar without thinking.

And before anyone can stop her, she storms over to Adrian and tosses both drinks in his face. The liquid splashes across his face, dripping down his expensive robes.

The crowd gasps. A few people laugh. Someone claps.

"My charity ends right here, asshole."

Adrian stares at her in stunned silence, dripping, shocked speechless for once.

Zora turns sharply. She catches Oliver's gaze. She can see concern in his eyes.

But she says nothing. She spins on her heel and storms outside.

The cold air hits her face like a slap and a comfort all at once. Zora inhales deeply.

Footsteps crunch on the snow behind her. She recognizes Angelina without her talking. 

"God, what an asshole. I can't believe—"

"Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, right?" Angelina's voice is tight, worried.

Zora shakes her head. "No. He didn't do anything, the idiot. He just thinks he can get away with whatever he wants. Like most guys."

Angelina steps forward and wraps her arms around her. The hug is sudden, grounding. She melts in it. 

"Nice dramatic glass throwing, by the way," she whispers.

Zora rolls her eyes, but squeezes her a little tighter. She didn't realize how much she needed the contact. 

"Rough night, huh?" Angelina adds as she pulls back slightly.

Zora nods once, then mutters without thinking, "Who the fuck is that girl?"

Angelina blinks. "Who?"

"The one Wood's with."

There's a pause. Then a slow, knowing smile spreads across Angelina's face. "Jealous, huh?"

Zora groans. "Just tell me."

"Mary Bennet. Pretty sure she's been in love with Ollie since first year."

Zora swallows. There's a knot forming in her stomach and she hates that she can feel it.

"She's pretty."

Angelina shrugs. "Yeah."

"She looks... sweet. Like someone Oliver should be with."

Angelina scoffs. "Right. Says who? I think this is the first time they've actually spent real time together."

Zora frowns. "Really?"

"Yeah. I don't even know why he asked her, honestly. Surprised the hell out of me."

Zora feels something loosen in her chest. A breath she didn't know she was holding escapes, but she keeps her expression neutral. She hates that this stupid relief is real.

Angelina's watching her carefully now. "Speaking of Oliver... can we talk about what he did back there?"

Zora crosses her arms. "What do you mean?"

"I mean him slamming Pucey into the wall because he was messing with you. That."

Zora blinks. She hadn't even processed it—everything happened so fast. But now, the memory of it flickers in her mind. Her heart beats, faster, louder.

"He would've done that for anyone," she says.

Angelina snorts. "You clearly don't know Oliver Wood like I do."

 Zora knows Angelina is right. That's the worst part. And he has no right—no right to look at her like that, stand for her like that, if he's going to bring someone else.

"I'm sorry your night's been shit," Angelina says softly, brushing Zora's arm with her hand.

Zora shrugs. "Could be worse. What about you?"

Angelina makes a face. "Not great. It was fun with Fred, but he bailed pretty quick. George barely looked at me all night."

Zora frowns and pulls her into another hug. "I'm sorry, Angie. Boys suck."

Angelina lets out a short laugh. "Speak for us. I know someone who's having fun with Ivan."

Zora cringes. "Don't. I'm getting images in my head."

Angelina exhales, her voice softer now. "I'm really glad you guys are here this year. It makes everything better."

Zora closes her eyes for a second. "Me too, Angie. Me too."

They fall into a quiet moment, just the two of them in the cold. Then Angelina sighs and steps back.

"I think I'm gonna head to bed. You wanna meet up tomorrow to exchange gifts?"

Zora nods. "Of course. Sleep well."

Angelina gives her a small wave and disappears through the main doors. Zora stays like that for a while before walking in too. She walks to the bar.

Inside, there aren't many people left. A few couples still on the dance floor, a few drunk friends finishing card games, some disappointed people half asleep. She grabs a glass and sits down. She doesn't want to go to bed yet.

She takes off her shoes, rubbing her ankle. She hates heels. 

George Weasley slumps onto the seat next to her, cheeks pink.

"I'm giving this whole gala thing a 3 out of 10," he announces, tapping his empty glass on the counter.

Zora smiles. "Harsh. That's generous."

"Extra point because of the floating candles," he adds, raising a finger. "They were vibing."

Zora snickers and looks at him. "Rough night?"

"Don't even mention it. I'm the biggest idiot. What about you? I heard your date worked miracles?"

"He's such a dick."

"Was he not already one?"

"You have a point."

There's a beat of silence where they both stare at the flickering lights. Then George sighs and stretches out his long legs.

"Y'know... Wood wanted to ask you."

She blinks.

"What?"

"Oliver," he says. "He was going to ask you to the Ball. Yesterday. But then he heard you were already going with Pucey."

Zora stills.

Her fingers tighten around her glass.

"Oh."

It's a soft sound — a whisper, almost. She feels her chest turning heavy and warm, the words like a truth she didn't know she needed. She doesn't look at George, just lets her gaze drift across the ballroom. The slow-dancing couples. The flickering light. The echo of what could've been.

"Why are you telling me this?" she says, finally looking at him.

George shrugs. "Because you're sitting here in bare feet, drinking alone, and you look like someone who deserves to know."

Before she can answer, she sees George's eyes flicker behind her.

Then a smile. "Well. Look who's coming."

She turns.

Oliver Wood walks across the nearly empty ballroom toward them, his jacket slung over one shoulder and that familiar furrow between his brows.

George rises from his seat with a dramatic bow. "And on that note — my cue to disappear."

He leans in, "Go easy on him," and then disappears into the light with a wink.

Zora rolls her eyes and can't help but look at Oliver. Jacket over his shoulder, shirt slightly open, sleeves rolled up. She swallows and curses herself for finding him so attractive. He looks a little tired. A little undone.

Too good. Too familiar.

He slows when he reaches her. His eyes scan her face. Not like Pucey's had—possessive and entitled—but like he's checking for cracks. Checking if she's okay. 

He finally sits down, still in silence, next to her. She feels his knee brush against hers. She shivers. Takes a sip from her drink.

Zora doesn't know how to feel about him anymore. A mixture of frustration, and then something sweet when she learns he was planning to ask her.

"You okay?" he asks. "After what happened with Pucey."

She nods once. "I've handled worse."

"Doesn't mean you should have to."

That makes her turn, really turn, and look at him. She sighs. "Thank you. By the way. You shouldn't have."

He laughs coldly. "Of course I should."

"Why ?"

"I just-, it's-, I can't bear to see-" he stops mid-sentence. Zora doesn't push further. She got it.

She sips on her drink. "Lost your date ?" She can't help but ask the question.

He sighs deeply. "She went to bed early. I think I was a bastard tonight too. I don't think I was a proper date to her."

Zora raises an eyebrow. "That bad?"

"I wasn't really there," he admits, looking at her right in the eyes.

Something about the way he says it makes her heart beat faster. But she doesn't say anything. Just sips her drink again and pretends the air around them isn't shifting.

A pause.

Then Oliver drinks the rest of his glass in one go and stands up. He clears his throat.

"I was going to ask you to dance," he says suddenly, putting a hand to his neck. "But I figure you'll say no."

"You figure right," she replies, not moving.

He steps forward. "Remember camp? Third year, I think. Coach Joe got that weird idea to organize a ball in the common room."

Zora listens. Oliver keeps going.

"Coach made us dance together. Mandatory social bonding or whatever", he adds, smiling now.

"You were sulking. You didn't want to dance with me. But as we danced, I made a joke and you smiled."

Zora looks down at her glass again, hiding the flicker in her expression. Of course she remembers.

"It was the first time you smiled at me," he says, voice lower now. "You hated me back then."

"I didn't hate you," she replies, quietly.

He leans in just slightly. "Yes, you did."

"No."

"You did. I was better than you at quidditch. You hated that."

Her mouth twitches.

He sees it instantly and grins. "There it is."

She bites her bottom lip to suppress the smile, but it's too late.

He holds out his hand. "C'mon. I know you remember—I've got some moves."

She hesitates. Then, slowly, she sets down her glass. Slides her hand into his.

His fingers close around hers, warm and calloused and familiar. He leads her to the center of the room. She walks behind me, trying to ignore her whole body melting and her heart beating fast.

He rests one hand gently on the small of her back, the other around her fingers. Zora places her hand on his chest, hesitant at first—then lets it settle there, over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

They begin to move. Slowly. Almost swaying more than dancing.

She ends up putting her head against his chest, feeling good. At ease; His head dips, resting lightly against the top of hers. She feels the brush of his breath near her temple. His thumbs draw small, slow circles against her bare skin where her dress dips. It sends shivers down her back—not from cold, but from how careful, how reverent it feels.

She closes her eyes.

For the first time tonight, she feels still. Safe.

He makes her suddenly turn on herself, gently, catching her when she stumbles into a laugh.

"God, yes," she teases. "What moves you have, Wood."

He smiles, his hand finding its way back to her waist. "Careful, or I'll might believe it."

She leans into him just a little more. They don't speak after that.

His eyes search hers—quiet, unreadable, intense. There's something in the way he's looking at her, like he's seeing every version of her all at once. He doesn't need to say a word.

Her eyes flicker to his lips. Her heart hammers. Her breath catches.

Maybe just—

But then the music cuts.

Zora freezes. Oliver pulls back. The warmth between them disappear.

People are clapping somewhere. A new song starts, too fast, too loud.

Fred and his bloody songs.

They step away from each other at the same time.

She looks at him. The burn in her chest unbearable.

"I should go," she whispers, already backing away. "Thanks for the dance, Wood."