Daisy was ascending.

Her whole body was pulsing, throbbing, tipping up, up, up. She'd sworn to drag Hunt to hell.

He had other plans.

She was willing to see them through.

But Hunt didn't kiss her. Didn't go down on his knees. The lights dimmed, the crowd slipped away, and he pulled Daisy against him, shielding his face from her view. Apologising? Claiming? Anchoring?

All Daisy knew was that something lighter and sweeter bloomed inside her when he pulled his arms around her. Something right near her heart.

Dance, something pleaded. Him? The music?

Daisy couldn't resist. Hunt's arms loosened around her—just enough so that she could dive into the melody, so he could watch her tread water. He allowed her the space to tip her head back, and she soaked up the kaleidoscopic lights like fat beams of sun. But even with her eyes closed, even with darkness shrouding his face, she knew his gaze didn't stray. Knew—that it burned.

He swept the hair off her face.

"Art," someone whispered.

Champagne or vodka or lust whizzed through her veins, the heat of his body curling into hers like a blanket beside a cozy campfire. His fingers trailed down her back while he watched her. Slid up her liquor-soft spine. Liquid. She was liquid against him, against his touch. She felt a sudden urge to erase any inch of space between them, to wrap them in invisible thread until they were joined, until they were one.

Instead, she danced.

And danced.

And danced.

It was perfect, she thought. She twined and fused with the music, performing just for him, letting him meet her step for step. It was the perfect end to the perfect day. Even though they'd fought. Even though they'd said things they didn't mean and some things they did. Because that fight had been real. Those emotions—real. And this ...

Real, a drunken voice told her.

Hunt's pulse was a metronome against her body, quick and erratic even though she'd never felt so calm. She leaned into it, resting her cheek against his chest. Her wild serenade dipped into something softer, something honey-smooth, though no less intense.

"You smell like a rainforest," she murmured, twirling when he lifted their entwined hands.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice a little unsteady.

"No. It's nice."

Hunt chuckled, tugging her back toward him, and the sound ... She could have danced to it.

Danced.

This man made her want to dance.

It was a startling realisation. Daisy was dancing with Hunt, for Hunt. She was dancing, after years of walking away when the music got too much. Because he was the kind of person she could dance with—and not feel sad.

I could fall in love with him, she thought. I could let myself fall in love with him.

Within a heartbeat, Hunt had pulled her off him. His hands bracketed either side of her face. He dipped his head to look her in the eye.

"How much have you had to drink?" a faraway voice asked.

Daisy smiled, her lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. The music had stopped. Why had it stopped?

"Dais?" that distant voice urged. When she failed to answer, it cursed colourfully. "Come on." Something tugged on her hand, familiar fingers twining with hers.

"No," she whined. "The music—"

"Daisy, come."

Daisy stopped whining.

Daisy was only partly aware of Hunt leading her out of the club. She didn't know how far they'd walked until the music was nothing but a whisper in the night. Hunt's rainforest aroma merged with the sweet-smelling breeze, and the trees weaved a thick canopy, blocking out most of the glittering starlight.

Home. They were going home.

Together.

Daisy was smiling.

And then she realised something. Something some sectioned off part of her mind told her was important.

Vanessa.

Daisy didn't know whether Vanessa saw them leave. Didn't know if she'd still been watching when their dancing turned into something ... more. Because, at some point, Daisy had forgotten that Vanessa was there. She'd forgotten that they were only dancing to prove a point.

And a part of her thought that Hunt had, too.

After seconds or minutes or hours of walking, Hunt's hand gripping hers so she wouldn't fall, he said, "I'm sorry."

She didn't have to ask what he was apologising for.

"Me, too," she murmured honestly. "I'm so sorry."

"I didn't mean it. Any of it."

She wondered whether that was entirely true.

"You were right, though. I'm hard to—" Love. Impossible, actually. She swallowed. "I'm hard. Prickly."

"I never said that I don't like your bite, tiger." Hunt slowed his pace, and Daisy wondered whether she imagined it when his grip tightened around her hand. "I just want you to tell me things. Or for you to know that you can. You don't have to, but you can tell me anything. I want to be—" He cut himself short, clearing his throat. "You don't have to wear that mask around me. That's all."

Was it a coincidence that Daisy's heart stopped beating right when he said that?

"You can tell me anything, too." She chewed her lip. "I hope ... Have I spoiled it?"

"Spoiled what?"

"Us?"

Hunt stopped to help her step over a fallen branch, little white flowers peppered between the moss. His eyes captured hers, vibrant as the stars. "Not even close."

"I was very mean."

"I know mean people. A lot of them." Hunt dropped her hand—only for his hands to reappear on her waist. "You're not one of them."

She didn't get a chance to disagree before he was lifting her over the branch, a whooshing sensation going through her whole body. Daisy might have laughed. Hunt might have looked a bit awed by the sound.

Even when she was back on her feet, once again trailing him through the tree-lined trail, Daisy thought she might have been floating. Thought a part of her might have actually become notes and chords, might forever be weaving along measures and bars. And that was okay. Because she didn't want to be anything or anywhere else.

The club wasn't her temple, she realised. He was. She could dance anywhere so long as he was with her. The music would be just as sweet. It would feel just as good.

An owl hooted as a cool wind caressed the palm fronds high above them, striking up a whole different kind of melody. A chill crept up her spine.

But then they stopped walking. Her arms were being stuffed in something. She heard the rustle of fabric. Something tightened around her as the snap of buttons sounded, warding off the tickling breeze. When she started walking again, she felt heavier. And warmer. And she smelled like the rainforest.

"I don't think you're pathetic." Her eyes were drooping, the darkness impenetrable, and her mouth felt so distant. So ... naughty. Daisy had the strangest feeling that she shouldn't be speaking, shouldn't have said, "I think you're perfect."

Oops. Too late.

And how funny, she thought, that they both started with the same letter. Pathetic. Perfect. Opposite, but same, but so, so different. 'P' was funny that way.

Daisy giggled.

Pee.

Broad hands cupped her face. She thought someone might have been asking if she was okay.

She pouted. "No. I'm mad." And then she was pouting more, because with only flickering torches to light their dark, narrow path, and with her lids so damn heavy, Hunt's face was a study in light and shadow, and she couldn't see his eyes. "I'm mad that you don't see how perfect you are. I want to gouge your eyes out and put them in my head so you can see what I see."

Hunt laughed softly, but the sound was flecked with surprise. "I don't think that would be a very pretty sight."

Daisy groaned loudly. "It's not about that, Hunt. It's about this." She pressed a hand to his chest, right over his heart. Just as she predicted, his pulse was a steady drum beneath her fingers. She wanted to fall asleep on top of him, basking in the sound of his own private melody.

"It's so ... good," she marvelled. There was that feeling again—that she should stop talking. "You're good."

She shuddered.

No; she didn't shudder. She was quite warm, now, actually.

Something had, though. And that warm drum was getting quicker.

Her lids fluttered closed. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him. He didn't say a word as she burrowed into his chest, seeking out the secrets in that delicate beat.

"You make me feel sick," she whispered. She could have sworn that drum pounded harder, slamming against Hunt's chest with bruising intensity. She wanted to feel it bruise her cheek. "I thought it was food poisoning, or acid reflux. It's you. When I see you, my stomach gets all ... knotty. I get so ... so hot."

Hunt stiffened.

And then melted.

Strong arms came around her, gentle fingers etching a slow, feather-soft pattern into the base of her spine. Yeah; knots in her stomach, fire in her veins. Daisy was overcome with one fever after the next. Citrus and vanilla collided. Hunt dipped his chin, and Daisy swore she felt his nose glide up the column of her neck. Swore he inhaled deeply. Swore someone groaned.

She wanted to let him explore, to let him do whatever the ghost of his breath trailing up her throat implied, whatever the slow, vigilant perusal of his hands over her spine vowed. No matter that her stomach was flipping, that she was being devoured by flames that burned like silk.

But Daisy was falling. The night was closing in.

"You make me feel sick, too," someone murmured.

Daisy's lashes lowered. The world tipped sideways. And then it was gone completely, and she was floating. Up and up and up, until she didn't have to walk, until she could rest her head on top of that strident pulse and let it carry her all the way home.

Part of her wanted to stay awake. He could have me now, she thought as she was lowered onto a bed, her shoes magically removed by proprietary hands. She was tired and content, but that flame he'd fed would be quick to catch with one sweep of his fingers, one flash of need in his decadent hazel eyes. He could have her right there, and she would let him. She'd let men have her for far less. She'd let Hunt do whatever he wanted. She'd become whoever he needed her to be.

Daisy was ready to dance again.

Silky-soft sheets came over her still clothed body. The room felt smaller somehow, and she was so high, so warm. She could still feel Hunt all over her, and she was wearing too many layers to enjoy what those phantom hands felt like.

She frowned into her pillow. "Too hot."

His laugh nuzzled her as surely as she'd imagined him nuzzling her throat on the rainforest path. His voice was a silky murmur in the night. "I'll put the fan on."

"What about my pyjamas?"

There was a strange pause before he said, "I can get Laia to help you?"

She barely had the energy to reply. Just shook her head. She didn't want to bother her.

A smile tugged her lips. "You hate them."

Something danced through her hair as Hunt asked, "Hate what?"

"My pyjamas." She yawned. "I know you don't like them. Your eyes get all ... foggy when I wear them. You won't look at me. Your knuckles turn white."

She swallowed.

No—not her.

But someone had.

Those dancing critters stilled. "You think I don't like them?"

Daisy smirked into her pillow. She didn't think. She knew.

Finally, Hunt murmured, "I like them plenty." He sounded sad and ravenous all at once. "I just wish you hadn't bought them for someone else."

Daisy tried to frown, but her features felt distant. She'd never bought lingerie or nightwear for a man. Gross. She always bought them for herself. She wanted to tell Hunt that, wanted him to know.

But silence closed in. Sleep lapped over Daisy like warm water over pebbles, like a veritable hand caressing her mind. She was about to tumble into the darkness when a voice drew her back.

"I know you're probably asleep," it whispered, its lull like a song, "or pretending you can't hear me, and you probably won't remember this tomorrow, but you need to know that I'm not sorry about everything I said." The bed dipped, the quiet voice drawing closer. It was right beside her ear. "Your boyfriend is a jerk. He's lazy and unreliable and a goddamn idiot."

Not my boyfriend, she wanted to retort, but she couldn't find her tongue.

"If you were mine ..." That whisper of a touch slipped through her hair again, and then it was gliding down her cheek. "I wouldn't have missed a minute of this, Daisy." Soft lips ghosted her brow. "Not a damn minute."

The voice fell away, and sleep swallowed her whole.

A/N: Hello hello!

Thoughts?!? I need your thoughts!! Did you see Haisy's little ~disagreement~ going in this direction? I, personally, like slowburn angst of the explosive kind. Can you tell?

The update on Sunday was quite cruel, so I had to give you all something a bit spicy and something a bit sweet. Are you more of a savoury or sweet person? No pun intended (srsly)

Finally, if Hunt took you out dancing:

What would you wear?

What would you drink? (doesn't have to be alcoholic)

What song would you dance to?

With love,
Danielle