Chapter 1: The Unspoken Pull of the Dance Floor
The music thumped through the floor, a bassline felt in the teeth. Alasdair leaned against the bar, a half-finished whisky dangling from his fingers. He’d done his duty—congratulated the groom, danced a painfully polite circuit with the bride’s mother, laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. Now, he was just waiting for the acceptable moment to slip away.
Then he saw her.
She was a still point in the swirling chaos of the dance floor. Sitting at a round table littered with empty glasses and abandoned napkins, she looked like she’d been painted there. Her dress was the colour of a stormy sky, simple, and her fingers traced the rim of a champagne flute she hadn’t drunk from. Her gaze was fixed on the twirling crowd, but her eyes weren’t following the movement. She was somewhere else.
Alasdair knew that look. The feeling of being behind a pane of glass, watching a party you were technically inside.
“Another?” The bartender nodded at his glass.
“No. Thanks.” He set it down. The room felt suddenly hotter, the music more insistent. He shouldn’t. She was clearly younger, and that look of hers wasn’t an invitation. It was a perimeter fence.
But there was a sharp, quiet beauty in her stillness that pulled at him. He found himself moving, weaving through the laughing groups, his path indirect, giving himself every chance to bail out.
He stopped at the empty chair beside her. “This seat taken by someone significantly more interesting than me?”
She started, a slight jerk that made the champagne slosh in her glass. Her eyes, when they lifted to his, were a blue so dark they were almost navy, wide and assessing. “It’s free,” she said. Her voice was softer than he’d expected.
“Alasdair.” He sat, not too close.
“Roz.”
“Friend of the bride or the groom, Roz?”
“The bride. We share a studio. I did the illustrations for the place cards.” She said it like a confession of something mildly criminal.
“They’re brilliant. I saw them. Little watercolour landscapes of where they met. Much better than just names.” He meant it. She glanced at him, a flicker of surprise, then looked back at her glass.
“You’re just being nice.”
“I’m an architect. I know good design from bad. I’m also from the west Highlands. You got the light on the loch just right. Most people don’t.”
That earned him another glance, longer this time. A tiny crack in the fence. “You’re from there?”
“Aye. A town you’ve never heard of. It rains sideways eleven months of the year, and the twelfth is just mist. It’s perfect.”
A small, real smile touched her lips. It changed her whole face. “That sounds… damp.”
“It builds character. Or webbing between the toes. One of the two.” He nodded towards the dance floor. “Not a dancer?”
“I’m more of a… watcher.”
“A vital role. Someone has to document the tragic dad moves for posterity.” He watched a uncle in a too-tight kilt attempt a spin. “See? That’s history happening right there.”
She laughed, a quiet, breathy sound that was swallowed by the DJ’s next track. It felt like a victory. She unfolded a little, her shoulders dropping an inch from her ears.
“What about you?” she asked. “You look like you’ve done your time.”
“I have. My feet are pleading for mercy. My cousin’s wedding. I’m here under familial duress.”
They lapsed into a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a bubble in the noise. He watched her watch the room. She had a way of noticing things—the way the bridesmaid’s strap kept slipping, the old man tapping his foot perfectly off-beat, a child under a table building a fort out of discarded handbags.
“You see everything, don’t you?” he said.
She coloured slightly. “Is that weird?”
“No. It’s a gift. Makes you a better artist, I’d bet. Most people just… scroll.”
The music shifted to a slower song, a familiar, aching ballad. The energy on the floor changed, couples drawing closer. The light softened.
Alasdair felt a reckless impulse. It was stupid. She’d say no. She was just being polite.
“Come on,” he said, standing up.
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“A slow one. Even watchers have to step into the frame sometimes. For research.” He held out his hand, palm up. A question, not a demand.
She stared at his hand as if it were a complex diagram. He could see the war behind her eyes: the instinct to retreat, and a flicker of something else—curiosity, maybe. A desire to be the person who said yes.
“I’ll stand on your feet,” she warned, but her hand lifted, hesitant, and settled in his. Her skin was cool.
“I’m in sturdy shoes. I’ll risk it.”
He led her to the edge of the floor, away from the centre. She was stiff at first, holding herself at a careful, polite distance. He kept his own posture loose, his hand a light guide on her back.
“See?” he said into the space between them. “Not a web-footed monster.”
Another small laugh, this one warmer. She began to relax, following his simple lead. She was light, and she did watch everything—their feet, the other couples, the disco ball spinning above.
“Why are you over here with me?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the music. “Instead of, you know, with someone.”
The question was blunt, devoid of coyness. It demanded honesty.
“Because,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “the room is full of people shouting. You’re the only one who seems to be listening.”
She didn’t reply. But her hand tightened, just slightly, in his. Her gaze, which had been darting around, settled on his shoulder. He could feel the faint, quick rhythm of her pulse where his thumb rested against her wrist.
They turned, a slow half-circle. The world outside their clumsy orbit blurred. He caught the scent of her—clean linen and the faint, sweet trace of the hotel’s complimentary shampoo. Not perfume. Something more real.
The song began to build towards its end. He knew the moment was about to break.
“Alasdair?” she murmured.
“Aye?”
“My feet are okay. You can… you don’t have to keep such a diplomatic distance.”
He smiled, and gently closed the gap between them. She fit against him neatly, her head coming just to his chest. He felt her take a deep, shaky breath and let it out. They moved like that for the last thirty seconds, not really dancing anymore, just swaying in the darkened room.
The song ended. The lights came up a fraction. The spell shattered into a hundred pieces.
They stepped apart. The noise of the reception crashed back in—clattering plates, a shriek of laughter, the DJ’s booming voice.
“Thanks,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were flushed.
“My pleasure, Roz.”
He wanted to ask for her number. The words were right there. But she had that closed-off look again, the fence sliding back into place. She was already glancing towards her table, her escape route.
“I should… my friend is probably wondering where I am,” she said.
“Right. Of course.”
She gave him one last, unreadable look—a mix of gratitude and panic—then turned and slipped through the crowd, a flash of slate blue, and was gone.
Alasdair stood on the empty patch of floor, feeling oddly cold. He’d crossed the room. He’d made her laugh. He’d held her. And he had absolutely no idea if any of it had meant a thing to her.
He walked back to the bar, the weight of his earlier exit feeling heavier. He’d just get his coat. The night was over.
Pushing through the main doors into the cooler, quieter hotel corridor, he fumbled for his phone. The sound of the wedding was now a dull throb behind thick doors. Then he heard it—a sharp, choked sound, like a sob quickly stifled.
He looked down the corridor towards the fire exit.
There, under the harsh fluorescent light, leaning against the wall with her face in her hands, was Roz. Her shoulders trembled. The quiet watcher had completely fallen apart.
The quiet watcher had completely fallen apart.
The sound was all wrong here in the sterile, carpeted hallway. It belonged in the storm-grey lochs of his home, or in a room with the door locked. Not here, under the buzzing fluorescence, with the faint, happy bass of the wedding still thumping through the walls.
Alasdair froze, one hand still in his coat. Every instinct told him to turn, to leave her with her privacy. Whatever this was, it wasn’t his business. She was a stranger, almost. But the memory of her hand in his, that single moment of weight against his chest, anchored him.
He walked slowly, his shoes silent on the plush carpet. He stopped a few feet away, not wanting to crowd her.
“Roz?” His voice was softer than he intended. “Hey. What’s happened?”
She jerked, dropping her hands. Her face was a mess of smudged mascara and pink, blotchy skin. Those navy-blue eyes were swimming, wide with horror at being seen. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands, a frantic, childlike gesture.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m fine.” The words tumbled out, high and tight. She tried to turn away, to face the wall.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” He didn’t move closer. He leaned his shoulder against the opposite wall, giving her space but not leaving. “Was it me? The dance? I’m sorry if I—”
“No!” She looked back at him, appalled. “God, no. It wasn’t you. You were… you were nice.” She said ‘nice’ like it was a foreign, fragile concept. A fresh tear escaped. She angrily swiped it away. “It’s so stupid.”
“Try me. I’m an expert in stupid. My last design was for a cheese museum. Client insisted on a ‘gouda’ ventilation system. I have the drawings to prove it.”
A wet, hiccuping sound escaped her. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something. She took a shuddering breath, her gaze fixed on the emergency exit sign.
“It’s just all this.” Her gesture took in the hallway, the distant music, everything. “The noise. The pretending. All these people knowing how to be. The happy couple, the perfect families. And I’m just… I’m in the wrong skin. I always feel like I’m on the other side of the glass, watching the party. And tonight, for a minute, with you…” She trailed off, embarrassed.
“You stepped through.”
She nodded, looking at her shoes. “And then the song ended, and it was like the glass slid right back. And I remembered I don’t know how to do any of this. The talking, the… the being. I just panicked. I had to get out before I said something idiotic or just stood there staring at you like a… a startled deer.”
He was silent for a moment, absorbing it. Her honesty was a physical thing in the hallway, raw and unadorned.
“So you ran out here to have a crisis in better lighting?”
This time, the sound was a genuine, choked laugh. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
“I prefer it out here anyway. The air doesn’t smell like regret and cheap champagne.” He pushed off the wall and took a single step closer. “Look. You didn’t say anything idiotic. And for the record, I like startled deer. They’re quiet. Observant. Better company than most of the peacocks in there.”
She finally looked up at him. The vulnerability in her face was almost too much to hold. He felt a fierce, protective urge that surprised him.
“I ruin everything,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
“You didn’t ruin my night. You were the best part of it.”
He meant it. The simplicity of the statement hung between them. The fire exit door groaned slightly on its hinges, a draft sneaking through.
“I should go find my friend,” she said again, but she didn’t move.
“You could. Or,” he said, fishing his phone from his pocket. “You could let me get your number. And next time, we could skip the party entirely. Go somewhere with no glass. Just two startled deer in a park. Or a terrible cinema. Or that cheese museum I mentioned. The acoustics are surprisingly creamy.”
She stared at him, her tears drying. The war was back in her eyes, but the panic was receding, replaced by a dawning, cautious wonder.
“You’d want to? After… this?” She gestured at her own tear-streaked face.
“Especially after this,” he said gently. “This is real. The rest in there is just confetti.”
She hesitated. The bass from the wedding changed to another pulsing, cheerful song. A cheer went up. The world continued, oblivious.
Slowly, she reached out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
He unlocked it and passed it over. Her fingers brushed his. They were still cool. She typed carefully, her brow furrowed in concentration, then handed it back.
“Roz,” he said, reading the contact. “No last name. Mysterious.”
“It’s Fletcher. It’s just… Fletcher.”
“Alasdair MacLeod. It’s just… a mouthful.” He pocketed the phone. It felt significant, a solid weight. “Now, do you want me to walk you back to your friend? Or would you like a clandestine escape through the service exit? I’ve been scouting routes all night.”
She smiled, a proper one this time, even with her smudged eyes. “Escape. Please.”
“Right. This way.” He offered his arm, not his hand. Something less demanding.
She looked at it, then linked her own through it, her touch light but definite. They turned away from the music, towards the grumbling exit sign and the concrete stairs beyond, leaving the brilliant, unbearable party behind them.
The service stairs were cold, concrete, and smelled of old bleach. Their footsteps echoed, a stark, private rhythm after the muffled roar of the party. Roz kept her arm through his, her grip tightening on the rail as they descended. The door at the bottom wheezed open into an alley, the sudden bite of the night air a shock. It was quiet, just distant traffic and the hum of a generator.
“Which way?” Alasdair asked.
She pointed left, towards the quieter residential streets behind the hotel. They walked. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full of the words she’d cried and the confession he’d just made. Streetlights painted everything in pools of orange and deep shadow.
After a few blocks, she spoke, her voice small in the dark. “My flat’s just on the next street. You really don’t have to—”
“I’m seeing you to your door,” he said, not unkindly. “Highland rules. Can’t have the local wildlife getting you.”
“What wildlife? A particularly aggressive fox?”
“You’d be surprised. They’ve developed a taste for posh handbags and low self-esteem.”
She nudged him with her shoulder, a gentle bump. They turned the corner. Her building was a modest Victorian conversion, a black door with peeling paint and buzzer buttons. They stopped under the faint glow of the overhead lamp.
This was it. The moment where the night either became a story or a promise. He could feel it slipping, the practicalities of goodbye rising up. She’d go inside, he’d walk away, and the fragile connection would be filed under Weird Wedding Weepy Girl. The thought made his chest feel tight.
She fished keys from her small bag, the metal jangling in her nervous hands. “Thank you,” she said, not looking at him. “For the dance. For the rescue. For not thinking I’m a complete lunatic.”
“Roz.”
She finally looked up. Her eyes were still a little red, but clearer now. The blue was deep, uncertain.
He took a breath. The air was cold in his lungs. “I’m gonna say something,” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “And you probably won’t believe me. You’ll think I’m a cheesy guy giving you a line. I can see you thinking it already.” He managed a shaky smile. “But at the risk of all that, I need to say this. In case you decide not to see me again.”
He paused, willing her to hear the truth in it. She was frozen, keys clenched in her fist.
“Listen. You are beautiful. Stunning. I saw you hours ago, and so did everyone else in that room. And well… I just wanted to let you know you’re gorgeous.”
The words hung there, simple and bare. He hadn’t whispered them. He’d said them plainly, into the cold night, where they couldn’t be mistaken for a tactic.
Her lips parted slightly. She didn’t smile. She didn’t flinch. She just absorbed it, her gaze searching his face as if checking for a fault line, a crack where the insincerity might leak out.
He took a step back, giving her space. “I’ll leave you to it, Roz. You be okay?”
She blinked, slowly. Then she nodded, a single, firm dip of her chin. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’ll be okay.”
He waited a second longer, then turned to go, the soles of his shoes scraping on the pavement.
“Alasdair.”
He stopped.
“The cheese museum,” she said. Her voice was stronger now. “Text me the details. If… if you still want to.”
He looked back over his shoulder. She was holding the door open, a slice of warm, dim hallway light behind her. A silhouette with a key in her hand.
“I’ll text,” he said.
He didn’t wait to see her go in. He just walked, hands in his pockets, feeling the chill and the peculiar, electric warmth of a chance not yet lost. Behind him, he heard the soft, definitive click of the door closing. Not a slam. Not a lock. A closure. A period at the end of the sentence, with the promise of a new line waiting underneath.
The walk back to his hotel was longer, the night colder. The whisky warmth had long since evaporated, leaving a hollow, buzzing silence in his head. He replayed it all on a loop—the stillness of her at the table, the tentative weight of her hand, the shocking heat of her tears against his jacket. You’re gorgeous. He winced, rolling his eyes at the darkened shop windows he passed. It was true, but God, it sounded like something from a bad film. The kind of line a man like Justin would deploy with a smirk.
But he’d meant it. Not just the physical part, though that was undeniable. He’d meant the quiet intensity of her, the observant eyes that saw the off-beat tap of a shoe, the artist’s hands that shook slightly. There was a beauty in that vulnerability that made his chest ache in a way he couldn't quite name.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—a message from Cameron. Where’d you vanish to? Redhead’s friend is asking about you.
He typed back, thumbs clumsy. Called it a night. Headache.
The lie came easily. The truth was too complicated, too fresh. He couldn’t explain the hollow feeling that seeing Roz cry had left in him, or the fierce protectiveness that had followed. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to. It wasn’t a hookup. It was something else entirely, and that unnerved him.
Back in the sterile quiet of his hotel room, he tossed his jacket on a chair. The silence was a physical presence after the club's thrum. He poured a glass of water from the minibar carafe and stood at the window, looking down at the still-busy streets. He thought about her key in the lock. The click of the door.
He pulled out his phone again. Scrolled to the new contact: Roz. No last name, just the one he’d added. He stared at the screen. If he waited, it would get weird. The momentum of the night would fade into doubt. He’d talk himself out of it.
He started typing. Deleted. Started again.
It’s Alasdair. The cheese museum’s closed on Mondays. Tragic. But there’s a terrible print exhibition at the modern art gallery. All blurred faces and existential dread. They serve terrible coffee. My treat. Saturday?
He hit send before he could rethink it. The whoosh sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He put the phone face down on the nightstand, took a swig of water, and pretended he wasn’t waiting for a vibration.
Five minutes passed. Ten. He took a shower, the hot water doing nothing to ease the tightness in his shoulders. When he came out, a towel around his waist, his hair dripping, the phone’s screen was lit up.
A single message. Roz: Existential dread and bad coffee. What time?
A laugh burst out of him, short and surprised. He typed back, water spotting the screen. 2pm. Meet you at the steps?
Roz: OK.
Just that. OK. He had no idea what it meant. No smiley face, no exclamation. It was just an agreement. He stared at it, trying to decipher a tone that wasn't there.
The next few days passed with the strange, suspended quality of anticipation. Work was a blur of site visits and CAD drawings. He found himself distracted, his mind drifting from floor plans to the dark blue of her eyes, the shaky sound of her breath in the hallway. Cameron and Justin tried to pry details about the wedding, but he deflected with vague answers. Met someone. Might see her again. The simplicity of it felt like a shield.
Saturday arrived, grey and drizzly. He stood at the bottom of the gallery steps at 1:55, hands shoved in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the damp. He felt ridiculously nervous. This wasn’t him. He did client presentations for million-pound projects. This was just a girl.
Then he saw her. She was coming from the opposite direction, a small figure under a black umbrella, her head down against the fine rain. She wore a dark green duffle coat and boots, her hair a damp, dark cloud around her face. She looked up, scanning the steps, and saw him.
Her steps faltered for a second. A repeat of the deer-in-headlights freeze. Then she gave a small, tentative wave and walked the final distance.
“Hi,” she said, arriving under the cover of the steps. She closed her umbrella with a sharp shake.
“Hi. You found it.”
“It’s a big building. With steps.” A flicker of dry humor. Good. She wasn’t crying. She looked… contained. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold.
“The two main criteria for existential dread,” he nodded. “Shall we?”
The gallery was a temple of white walls and hushed voices. The exhibition was, as promised, relentlessly bleak—enormous canvases of distorted figures in empty offices, videos of factories on loop. They walked slowly, not touching, pausing at each piece. The silence between them wasn’t the easy quiet of the dance floor. It was charged, full of things unsaid.
“What do you think?” he asked finally, standing before a painting that was just a vast, blurry expanse of industrial grey.
“I think,” she said slowly, her eyes tracing the brushstrokes, “the artist is very good at making me feel like I’ve left the oven on. Even though I haven’t got an oven.”
He snorted. “A profound critique.”
“It’s just…” She turned to him, her brow furrowed. “It feels like a performance. Of sadness. Real sadness isn’t this… curated. It’s messier. It has bad lighting and smells like takeaway and you’re not sure what you’re meant to be feeling at all.”
Her words hung in the cool, dry air. He looked at her, really looked. She was analyzing the art with a sharp, professional eye, cutting through the pretension to the truth underneath. He’d been wrong. She wasn’t fragile. She was precise.
“So what would you paint?” he asked. “If you were doing real sadness.”
She was quiet for a long moment, staring at the grey painting. “I’d paint a wedding,” she said softly. “From the perspective of someone under a table. All the expensive shoes, and the dropped napkins, and the way the light from the disco ball fractures on a half-empty glass. And no one’s face. Just… the debris of happiness.”
He felt a jolt go through him. The image was so clear, so devastatingly good. “That,” he said, his voice low, “is a better painting than anything in this room.”
She blinked, as if surprised by her own words, and looked away, colour rising on her neck. “The coffee’s probably getting colder,” she muttered, changing the subject.
The café was all concrete and chrome. The coffee was, as advertised, terrible—bitter and thin. They took a table by a window overlooking a rainy sculpture garden.
“So,” he said, stirring a pointless sugar packet into his mug. “Illustration student. What does that mean, exactly?”
It was the right question. Her eyes lit up, just a little, and she started talking about mediums, about digital versus traditional, about her final project—a graphic novel adaptation of Scottish folktales, but from the perspective of the monsters. Her hands moved as she spoke, sketching shapes in the air. She was passionate, knowledgeable, utterly in her element. The shyness fell away, replaced by a focused intensity that was mesmerizing.
“And architecture?” she asked finally, taking a sip of her coffee and grimacing. “You actually like designing cheese museums?”
“I like designing spaces where people feel something,” he said. “Even if it’s just delight about a particularly nice cheddar. It’s about… function and poetry. The weight of a door, the way light falls in a stairwell. Making something solid out of an idea.”
She listened, her chin propped on her hand. “That’s what I’m trying to do with lines. Same thing, really.”
The conversation flowed, easier now, shifting from work to music, to terrible films, to a shared hatred of avocado toast. They laughed. The rain streaked the window. He learned she was an only child, that she loved the smell of petrol stations and new pencils, that she had a paralyzing fear of escalators.
“So,” he said, after a lull. The coffees were long finished. “On a scale of one to being trapped in this gallery forever, how has this been?”
She smiled, a proper, unguarded smile that reached her eyes. “A solid seven. Maybe a seven-point-five.”
“High praise.”
“The company was better than the art.”
He held her gaze for a second too long. The noise of the café faded. He wanted to reach across the table and take her hand. He wanted to know if her skin was still cool.
“I should probably go,” she said, glancing at her phone. “I’ve got a life drawing class. The model is an elderly man named Gerald who brings his own miniature schnauzer. It’s… a whole thing.”
“Of course.” He stood up with her, a strange reluctance pulling at him. They gathered their coats, walked back through the white halls, now familiar, and out onto the steps. The rain had slowed to a mist.
“Thanks for the bad coffee,” she said, opening her umbrella.
“Thanks for the brilliant art criticism.” He hesitated. “Roz… I’d like to do this again. Without the existential dread. Maybe with some food that actually has taste.”
She looked up at him, and for a moment, the confidence from the café vanished. The shyness was back, a veil falling. He could see her thinking, over-analyzing, the panic setting in. He braced for the gentle let-down.
“I’d like that,” she said, the words coming out in a rush. Then, quieter, “But I’m… I’m not very good at this. The dating thing. I’ll probably say the wrong thing, or freeze up, or…”
“Hey,” he interrupted gently. “Neither am I, apparently. I called you gorgeous in a dark alley. My game is tragic. We can be terrible at it together.”
She let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “Okay. Terrible together. That… I can do that.”
“Text you?”
“Text me.”
She turned and walked down the steps into the mist, becoming a blur of green and black before disappearing around the corner. Alasdair stood there, the cold seeping through his shoes, feeling the echo of her words. Terrible together. It wasn’t a promise of perfection. It was something better. It was a beginning, honest and unguarded, and for the first time in a long time, the restless feeling inside him was quiet, replaced by a keen, patient curiosity.