Short and sweet, just like last time. Enjoy, and R&R!
"Trish, you know I don't dance," Van insists, standing his ground as she tugs at his arms, a pale blue dress shimmying its way about her curves as she struggles to pull him through the door. Outside, the lights of a bonfire glint off every tangible surface, creating a vivid display that strings together every palpable shade of red and orange and yellow.
"Oh yes…you…do," says Trisha matter-of-factly, giving one final tug; his legs give way and they both tumble onto the gravelly earth behind them, his face landing inches from hers. They stare at each other for a minute or so, panting and heaving, and he takes in the overwhelming green of her eyes, something he was never really captivated by at any other point in their childhood together, maybe because she never dressed sprightly enough to bring out their color, or—
"Do you want to get off me anytime soon?" she asks, a coy smile surfacing on her lips. He looks at her in surprise, at the way their noses are almost touching and their chests are flushed against each other; the cogs in his brain finally seem to turn, and he blubbers helplessly as he regains his footing and pulls her to her feet.
She smiles bashfully, looking away as she smooths out her dress and shakes the dirt from her shoes. He contemplates his options for a minute, and then, to his bewilderment (and perhaps to her pleasure), awkwardly holds out his arm for her to latch onto.
The light in her eyes has never been brighter.