When you first meet Oliver Wood, you’re in the middle of dragging a trunk across the school’s quidditch pitch. This, of course, is the last thing any of your friends, or even anyone who doesn’t know you at all, would expect to find you doing. You think they’d be even more surprised to find said trunk is full of bludgers, quaffles, bats and a snitch: quidditch supplies.
Your friends, of course, also aren’t aware of your fondness for quidditch. Why would they when you’ve never mentioned playing or wanting to play before in the years they’ve known you? And it’s not that you want to keep this interest of yours a secret, you just figure there’s no point in sharing. Your parents refuse to let you play on the Slytherin quidditch team, so why bring it up in front of friends who often visit your home over breaks and could possibly let your forbidden hobby slip?
Again, it’s not that your parents are unsupportive or so snobby that they believe quidditch is beneath a witch of your status, especially as a female. No, despite being a pureblood family of old money, they are quite supportive of your other endeavors of arithmancy and summer football. You believe it’s the height and danger of quidditch that they’re against, not the fact that it’s a sport and you are a witch from a family of high societal status.
You were stubbornly angry for your first few years at Hogwarts, but eventually accepted the fact that they would never change their minds. Upon being sorted into Slytherin and introduced to the other families found in your house, you’re just grateful your parents don’t stand with the blood purists. It’s absolute rubbish, this blood purity thing, and your father has spent many dinners raving over the ignorance of his peers. Your mother is a halfblood, and your father’s uncle was a muggle born himself, and so he has always been adamant that there is no room for such bigotry in his house.
So yes, you are proud of your family for treating human beings as such, but you’re still silently bitter about the no quidditch rule. Not being able to join the Slytherin team has not stopped you from playing the game, however. Every once in a while, when there’s no match to occupy the pitch and your friends are distracted by homework, you’ll sneak down to the storage room and snag a broom and a trunk of supplies in hopes of getting some solo practice in.
The constant struggle, however, was actually getting the trunk of balls onto the pitch. Usually you could manage dragging it out on your own, but after carrying Tracey’s too-tall pile of books from the library to the dungeons, your arms are feeling quite exhausted already. Sighing, you massage your biceps and stretch out your forearms before giving it another try.
Bending your knees, you grip on the side of the trunk and give it a tug, pulling it a decent way before your arms begin to give out, forcing you to take another break. You’re already starting to sweat and you haven’t even started playing yet. And yes, you realize you can use your wand to levitate the trunk out onto the field, but magic will get you nowhere in your goal of gaining a semblance of upper body strength. Even if the idea is unlikely, if you ever want to play as a real beater then you’ll need all the arm strength you can get.
And so you continue to grit your teeth and drag the too-heavy trunk across the field to where your borrowed broom lies. At least, you try to drag the trunk before a figure appears at the edge of the pitch. You see the person out of the corner of your eyes and ignore them for a moment as you give one last tug. Soon enough, though, they begin to actually approach you and you sigh, finally looking up at them.
What you see is a bit of a surprise. Eyebrows lifted, you watch for a moment as Gryffindor keeper and captain of the quidditch team approaches you, a smug look on his face. Frowning, you blow a piece of hair out of your face and straighten up, hands on your hips.
“Oliver Wood, is it?” You call out. “I don’t believe there’s a match scheduled today, and I’m sure even you would never be so cruel as to schedule practice on a beautiful Saturday afternoon.” You see his raised eyebrow and shrug. “I’ve heard the complaints about you, Wood. An awfully dedicated captain, you are.”
Now he shrugs, a smile on his face. “What can I say other than my team needs the practice and could do with the discipline. What I’m more interested in, though,” he says with a pointed glance at the trunk resting by your feet, “is why you’re out here dragging a trunk - one that doesn’t belong to you, by the way - out onto the pitch.”
You lift your chin and narrow your eyes a bit. “Well, I don’t see your name on it, so I think I have as much right as you to drag this trunk where I please, so long as I return it in a reasonable condition.” He chuckles and shakes his head a bit in disbelief.
“Well, considering that trunk belongs to the quidditch teams, and I am on a team and you aren’t, then I do believe I have a bit more right than you.” You open your mouth, about to continue arguing, when he lifts a hand, chuckling. “I’m kidding, lass. Though it does look like you could use some help with that.”
You begin to protest as he takes a few steps closer, but he either pretends not to hear you or simply doesn’t care as he picks up the trunk anyway, lifting it with what looks like no effort at all. You hide how impressed you are with some grumbling as you follow behind him to the middle of the pitch, arms crossed. You don’t even wait for him to fully set the trunk down before you’re trying to usher him away.
“Well, thank you for all of your unnecessary help, but I’m sure I’ll be fine from here if you want to go about your earlier plans. You know, not here.” He straightens and turns so he’s facing you, a ‘really?’ expression on his face as he places his hands on his hips.
“Actually, I think I’m quite ok here. In fact, I was wondering what exactly you might be doing with these quidditch balls.” You give him a blank look, arms still crossed.
“Oh, I was thinking of polishing them all before adding some googly eyes to each one. I think it would add a lot to the game if each ball had a bit of personality, don’t you?” He seems taken aback and almost offended for a moment before he seems to realize you’re joking. You see his face fall as he finally hears the sarcasm and you snort a bit.
“What are you really doing?” You let your arms drop and brush past him, leaning over to grab the broom you placed on the ground earlier. Straightening, you look over your shoulder at him.
“Playing quidditch, of course. Surely you aren’t so daft that you can’t recognize your own sport, are you?” You then crouch down in front of the trunk, flipping the latch before lifting the lid and pulling out the quaffle. Oliver hasn’t moved or said anything yet, and so you look up at him in question. You frown when you see the amused look on his face.
“Oh, please, Wood, if you’re going to laugh then you might as well do it.” Taking your words as an invitation, he lets out a soft chuckle, one that you believe is more contained than you’d like. Your frown deepens and you stand, glaring at him. When he’s stopped laughing, you decide to question him.
“And what, praytell, is so funny?” Seeing your glare, he raises his hands in surrender for a moment before shoving them into his trouser pockets, rocking back on his heels.
“Oh, nothing, I suppose. It’s good that you want to learn, but are you sure it’s something you want to- I mean, are you sure it’s for you, lass?” Your body tenses and you allow it, feeling the defensiveness already building.
“And what’s that supposed to mean, Wood? That just because I’m a girl, I can’t play as well as you? Or is it the fact that my parents are wealthy and I dress like it? Which one of those deems that I’m an unworthy quidditch player? Surely it couldn’t be because I’m in Slytherin, since our team happened to beat yours just last week.”
With your fiercest glare, you whip around, quaffle tucked under your arm as you mount your broom. You don’t look back or allow him time to respond before you kick off, lifting into the air and racing over to the goalposts. Flying past, you manage an admittedly unnecessary spin on your broom before throwing the quaffle as hard as you can clean through one of the hoops.
Unfortunately, in your anger and quick getaway from Wood, you forget to charm the quaffle so it returns to you after every throw. Sighing, you lean in against your broom and take off, chasing after it as it sails away. Pushing your broom faster, you manage to get beneath the quaffle in its trajectory and quickly spin upside down, keeping your body closely tucked to your broom. Catching it in your left hand and gripping tightly with your other, you manage to right yourself once you have it securely in your arms before turning around and heading back to the pitch.
You don’t bother looking for Wood, instead focusing on getting another throw in, but you suddenly don’t have to bother searching. Coming up to meet you, Wood is mounted on his own broom with an astonished look on his face.
“Bloody hell, that was- that was incredible!” You just frown at him with a slight narrow to your eyes.
“I know it was. So tell me, what were you wrong about? Believing girls, aristocracy, or Slytherins can’t play quidditch as well as you?” His guilty expression satisfies you a bit, but an apology would do a bit more for you.
“Look, I shouldn’t have made an assumption. It wasn’t the fact that you’re a girl or a Slytherin or however wealthy your parents are. I’ve just never seen you around the pitch before, so I figured you wouldn’t have played. I mean, I know every quidditch player in the school and I don’t even know your name.”
You raise an eyebrow and allow a small smile to take over your lips. “Chapman,” you say. “My name is Chapman.” He raises an eyebrow, his own smile growing.
“And your first name, lass?” You give it to him and he nods, repeating it with a smile. You suddenly blame the redness of your cheeks on the wing blowing at this height.
“Well, Chapman,” he says, flying a bit closer to you. “Looks like you could use a keeper. Care for some company as you practice?” You consider him for a moment, despite already knowing your answer. With a smile, you nod starting to fly away.
“Sure, Wood,” you call out behind you. “Just don’t be upset when I beat your cocky arse.” You hear a laugh behind you as he moves to catch up and take his place in front of the hoops.
The two of you end up practising for hours, much longer than you’ve ever gone on your own. Turns out practising with another person is significantly better than doing so on your own.
You also ended up getting along with him much better than you originally thought you would. By the time you both call it quits, you’re leaning on your broom, laughing hysterically as Oliver does yet another impression of Marcus Flint. He may be from your house, but that doesn’t stop him from being a total git.
As the two of you put the balls away and carry the trunk back over to the storage shed, you realize that maybe Oliver Wood isn’t as bad as you thought. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering you’ve never spoken to him, but you suppose you allowed his reputation as uptight captain to precede him. It seems you judged him just as he judged you, and you were as wrong as he was.
Walking back to the castle, the two of you are joking about divination and Trelawney’s obsession with tea leaves when you bring this up to him.
“In the spirit of being honest and all, I thought it would be important for me to tell you. I have no right to be upset at you when I did the same thing.” You shove your hands in your pockets, looking at him out of the corner of your eye as you trudge up the hill next to him. He tilts his head back and lets out a laugh.
“Oh, come on lass, don’t stress about it, yeah? We were both wrong and now we’re mates, so there’s no point in focusing on it.” You raise your eyebrows and look at him in surprise.
“Mates, huh? Bold of you to assume you’re my mate.” He snorts and bumps his shoulder into yours.
“No point in denying it, Chapman. I can practically feel your fondness of me.” He gives you a wink and you laugh, not bothering to deny it again all the way back to the castle.
**********
Despite having a grand time with Oliver that Saturday, the two of you hardly see one another for the next week and a half. You suppose it makes sense; despite the mates joke, it’s not as though you spent any more than a few hours together. You certainly weren’t expecting to suddenly be best mates who spend time together regularly.
What you also weren’t expecting was his sudden approach to you. You’re standing with your friends in the hallway between classes, discussing the dresses you’re all thinking of wearing to the Yule Ball. Tracey wants to go down to Hogsmeade and purchase a new one, but you roll your eyes. Surely she has plenty of suitable dresses from the many balls and parties her family throws regularly. In fact, you’re sure her mother just bought a new one for her for their upcoming Christmas party. Your own mother purchased a new gown for you to wear to the event as well.
Daphne Greengrass is in the middle of explaining to Tracey that the various ball gowns she already owns are enough when a nervous, shuffling Oliver Woods approaches the three of you. You raise your eyebrows at his unusual behavior, following him with your gaze and he walks over, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers.
He looks up to meet your eyes before clearing his throat, gaze flitting over your friends and then back to you. “Er- hello, Chapman.” You give a slow smile and nod, quite enjoying his discomfort.
“Hello there, Oliver.” You decide not to take mercy on him, offering no olive branch to relieve his obvious tension. Instead you smile over at him, and from the irritated look in his eyes he knows exactly what you’re doing. He clears his throat again.
“I was wondering, um, if I could speak to you.” His eyes flick over to your friends once more. “Alone,” he adds. You nod and turn back to Tracey and Daphne, both of whom are trying not to giggle too loud. You roll your eyes once more.
“I’ll be off then, girls. See you in class.” You walk off, dragging Oliver with you as you ignore their coos and whisper about the Yule Ball from behind you. Once you’re in a decently clear part of the hall, you turn towards him with an expectant look on your face. He remains silent, rubbing a hand behind his neck.
“Well? What is it you wanted to talk about, Wood? I don’t have all day.” He huffs a bit and shakes his head, smiling slightly.
“Well, lass, I have a question for you.” You nod, an impatient smile taking form on your face.
“Ask away, then.” He lets a breath out through his nose, nodding before pausing again. He seems to build up whatever Gryffindor courage he may have, though, as he suddenly looks up at you, face determined and eyes set straight on yours.
“It’s about the Yule Ball, see…” Your eyes widen a bit at his words. Your friends were certainly teasing, and you can guess from their whispers that they were suggesting Oliver would ask you to the Yule Ball, but you had never considered the possibility. Now, though? Now it sounded exactly like he’d be asking you to the Yule Ball. What’s worse, you think you want him to.
You blush a bit and your stomach does a little flip as he bites his lip, hesitating a bit. You unconsciously lean forward, eager to hear his next words. “What about the Yule Ball?”
“Well, I… it’s embarrassing really, but…” You bite your own lip, trying to stop your nerves from showing.
“Will you teach me how to dance?” You pause, your lip slipping out from between your teeth.
“Er… what?” He flushes a bit and seems to stumble over his words, but now that he’s gotten the question out he seems to be on a roll.
“Well, you’re rich, right?” You glare at him a bit and he winces, backtracking. “Or, well, I mean you come from a pretty respectable family, right? So, surely you must go to balls and dances and whatnot, right? What I’m getting at is you must know how to properly dance.” Your eyebrows furrow further the longer he speaks.
“You’re just assuming I know how to dance.” He frowns a bit.
“Well, do you?” Now you frown.
“Of course I do!” He smirks and you want to wipe it from his face. Instead, you try to counteract it with a scowl of your own.
“So I was correct in my assumption, yeah? You know how to dance, so it should be no issue for you to teach me.” You throw your hands up in the air, quite frustrated. First he doesn’t ask you to the ball, but now he assumes you’d be willing to dedicate time making sure whoever he does take to the ball has a decent time dancing with him.
“And why, praytell, would I want to do that?” His smirk wobbles a bit as he hesitates once more.
“Er… so I won’t make a complete twat of myself?” You smirk and cross your arms.
“I don’t know, Wood, I think I’d quite like to see that.” He chuckles a bit and nudges you with your elbow.
“Not when it’s you I’m dancing with, Chapman.” Your body goes still, smile freezing on your face, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“So, it’s Wednesday now. What do you say to Saturday morning, DADA classroom? That should be plenty big, right?” You say nothing, still a bit stunned at his insinuation - it wasn’t even an insinuation, he outright declared it - that you would be dancing with him at the ball.
“Brilliant,” he says, taking another step closer to you. Before you can react or protest, he presses a quick kiss to your cheek before turning on his heel and speedily heading down the hall, waving over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you then, lass!” He calls out. All you can do is stare after him, mouth open. It’s only when a group of younger Hufflepuffs pass by you, giggling and joking amongst themselves that you snap out of it. Scowling, you furiously rub at your cheek in an attempt to remove his kiss. The nerve you think as you wipe your sleeve against the kissed skin.
You refuse to acknowledge the blush on your cheeks or the butterflies in your stomach. You certainly don’t pay any attention to the smile that’s struggling to break out on your face as you head to class, ducking your head down in an attempt to hide. There’s no way, you think to yourself, that I fancy Oliver Wood. No way at all.
For some reason, you couldn’t seem to find yourself very convincing.
**********
Saturday morning, true to your - albeit silent - word, you make your way to the DADA classroom earlier than agreed and begin to clear the room. You’ve already levitated all of the desks to the sides of the room by the time Oliver arrives in his trousers and classic black turtleneck. He whistles as he looks around the room at the desks.
“You didn’t have to do it all on your own, lass. I could have helped.” You lift one shoulder before letting it drop, turning away from him.
“Yes, you could have, but I was fine doing it myself.” You walk over to the center of the room as you speak and flick your wand. The sudden playing of classic music covers Oliver’s mutterings of ‘stubborn girls.’ You smile a bit before turning back to him.
“Alright, let’s get to it then.” He doesn’t move any closer to you, still standing a few yards away, hands in his pocket and looking as though he was asked to deliver a speech for the queen. You roll your eyes with a smile, walking forward and grabbing his hand before pulling him to the middle of the room. He gives a nervous smile as he follows you taking his other hand out of his pocket.
“Now, your right hand goes here.” You direct his hand down to the curve of your waist, staring down at it as you focus on the feel of his hand on you. Closing your eyes and taking a breath, you look back up to him with a controlled smile. “My left hand goes here. And our other hands we hold together. See?” With your left on his shoulder and your other hands clasped, you begin to feel a bit more confident. Dancing you know. Dancing you can control.
Oliver, on the other hand, seems to be somehow less confident than he was before. You give him a gentle smile.
“Oliver, it’s ok. You don’t have to be nervous. We’re just learning, right? I’m not going to yell at you if you get it wrong, and there’s no one else here. You’ll be fine.” He swallows and nods his head quickly, gesturing for you to continue.
“Ok, now you really only need to know the basic foot pattern. For now, just watch my feet. When I step forward, you step back. When I step to the right, you follow. Got it? Let me lead for now, and then once you’re feeling better you can start leading.”
You wait a moment for the music to reach a good spot before starting to move. As expected, he’s incredibly clumsy. You didn’t account for just how clumsy he would be, though.
“Ow! Bloody hell, Oliver, that was the fourth time.” You wince as you pull away from him, rubbing your foot. The two of you had been dancing for about ten minutes, and he seemed to be just as bad as he was when you started.
“Honestly, Wood, how can you be so graceful with quidditch and so clumsy with dancing? It doesn’t seem right.” He blushes and runs a hand through his hair lifting his shoulder.
“I don’t know! I’m trying, Chapman, I am, but it’s just so… complicated.” You think for a moment, lowering your foot back to the ground.
“Well, what if you think of dancing like you think of quidditch?” He cocks his head, thinking for a moment. You watch for a few seconds as he begins muttering to himself, pacing around. You sigh a bit, not in annoyance but more in exasperated fondness. He can be quite cute, you will admit.
“Ok,” he finally says, turning back to you. “If I remember the steps correctly, then I think I’ve got it.” He looks up at you, eyes meeting yours. His cheeks are pink, but he has a lovely smile on his face. He reaches a hand out to you.
“What do you say, lass? Ready to give it another go?” You smile back and take his hand, allowing him to pull you into him. You're closer this time, your chest pressed against his. Your face heats up at the contact and lack of personal space, but you don’t pull away and neither does he.
Noticing his stance, you look up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure you can take the lead this time? You have yet to successfully follow me.” He gives you his classic cocky smirk, shooting you a wink.
“Trust me, love. I’ve got this.” Ignoring the flutter in your heart at the nickname, you start the music up again with a flick of your wand before tucking it back into your pocket. Once the music hits an identifiable start of a measure, Wood begins to move.
It’s still clumsy and he does step on your toes once more, but he’s completely absorbed in his dancing, focusing entirely on the footwork. It’s stiff, yes, but the longer the two of you dance, the more he loosens up. He quickly gets the hang of it, a wide grin spreading across his face when he realizes this. He whispers your name under the violins and harmonizing cello. You look up to him.
“I’m dancing! Bet you thought I wouldn’t be able to.” You chuckle a bit, shaking your head.
“Yes, Wood, you are dancing. And not as poorly as you were doing before. Lovely job.” He gives you another wink before his face goes back to one of concentration.
Eventually the song changes, and your pace slows. You allow yourself to rest against his body, head leaning on his shoulder as he spins the two of you around. This is how you spend the next half hour in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, dancing slowly to a beautiful orchestra playing for just the two of you. You almost forget that he did not, in fact, ask you to the Yule Ball. Almost.
**********
Weeks pass after that first lesson. Nearly every weekend Wood insists on another one, claiming he needs more practice and isn’t good enough yet. You always sigh at his stubbornness, but secretly find it endearing how much he cares about being able to dance well. Despite the pang in your chest at every reminder that he still hasn’t asked you and isn’t likely to, you always say yes and continue teaching him to dance.
By the time the day of the Yule Ball arrives, you’re confident in his dancing abilities. As you slip on your dress and help Tracey and Daphne with their hair, you feel certain that whichever nice girl Oliver decided to ask will thoroughly enjoy herself as his date.
When the three of you are finally ready, you trek down to the common room and out into the hallway, giggling and complimenting each other all the way. As you leave, though, several other groups already ahead of you or quickly following behind, a splash of red amongst a sea of green stops you in your tracks. Looking closer, you see an all too familiar face who definitely doesn’t belong to. You detach your arm from Tracey’s who has followed your line of vision and makes no comment, instead turning to Daphne, most likely gossipping about this boy’s sudden appearance.
As you approach him, you call out. “Oliver,” you say, finally reaching him, placing a hand on his arm. He turns at the sound of his name and opens his mouth to say something. He never does, however, instead freezing with his mouth still open when he sees you. His eyes trail down your dress and then slowly back up before reaching your face once more, his cheeks now bright red and mouth forming into a smile. You try to hide your own blush, attempting to convince yourself that he definitely did not just check you out.
“Oliver,” you repeat, catching his gaze. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be with your Gryffindor friends.” Or your date. You don’t say that part, though, because despite agreeing to teach him how to dance, you definitely aren’t a masochist. You’d hate to hear him go on about his beautiful date on the day of the ball, especially after he showed up in front of your common room.
He takes your hand that’s still resting on his arm and intertwines his fingers with your own. You flush at the contact, staring down at your hands. “What,” he says, still gazing at your face. “I can’t walk you to the ball? That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me, now would it?” You smile and shake your head despite yourself.
“I’m fairly sure that isn’t your chivalrous duty, Wood.” He gives you a wink.
“I’m fairly sure it is, lass. Now come on, your friends have already started off without us.” Looking back, you see that Tracey and Daphne were indeed gone. You turn back to Oliver, linking your arm through his.
The two of you walk through the halls towards where the ball is being held in comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on a beautiful gown you see, or Weasley’s ridiculous - yet adorable, you argue - dress robes. Eventually you make it to the ball and hang off to the side, watching as the champions enter with their dates and begin dancing. You smile, admiring the handsome dress robes and beautiful gowns and turn to Oliver to point out a particularly beautiful one.
When you turn to him, though, you find he’s already looking down at you, a soft smile on his face. You blush and immediately become defensive.
“What?” You ask, hand self-consciously going to your face. “What’s wrong?” His smile grows and he shakes his head.
“Absolutely nothing. Now come on, I believe it’s time for us to dance.” You look back at the crowd and notice that most people have joined in with the champions, dancing along with their partners. You turn back to him, suddenly shy. Surely he should find his date now and dance with her. It would hardly be appropriate for him to share his first dance with you.
Before you can voice this, however, he’s already pulling you to the dancefloor and placing a hand on your waist, the other gripping your own. You feel the sweat on his palms and the slight shake to his hands, but once he begins leading you across the dancefloor you notice his confidence settle in. You smile, admiring the concentration on his face before suddenly frowning. He shouldn’t be dancing with you right now. This shouldn’t be yours.
You slow to a stop, catching his attention. He glances up at you, confusion on his face. “What’s wrong? Did I mess up again? I know I didn’t step on your toes this time, I’ve been working on that.” You smile a bit, but it doesn’t last long. You shake your head.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just… you shouldn’t be dancing with me right now, Oliver.” His eyebrows furrow.
“What? What not? That doesn’t make any sense.” You sigh a bit, dropping your hand from his shoulder. His frown deepens at this.
“You should be dancing with your actual date, Oliver. It’s not right that I get your first dance when she’s probably out there wondering where you are.” An absolutely bewildered look comes across his face and remains there for a solid few seconds. You begin to feel awkward as you continue standing there amidst a sea of dancing couples, saying nothing. You clear your throat.
“Lass,” he finally says. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?” You frown at this, leaning forward slightly.
“I’m talking about the girl you asked to the ball. I’m not sure who she is, but you should be dancing with her right now, not me.” His look of bewilderment remains as he throws a hand up in exasperation.
“But- what? But, lass, I am dancing with my date. I don’t understand, do you not want to dance? I thought this is what we’ve been working toward with our lessons and all.” You blink, trying to process his words.
“What… Oliver, I’m not your date.” A look of hurt crosses his face and you leap forward, trying to explain yourself before he gets the wrong idea. “No, no I mean you never asked me to be your date. You just asked me to teach you how to dance. I figured you were trying to get better for your, you know, actual date.” His face turns the brightest shade of red you’ve ever seen on him, Gryffindor colors included. It would be adorable if you weren’t so confused.
Who are you kidding? It’s still adorable.
He starts stuttering, trying to find words to say. Eventually, he settles with “I’m an absolute git. How did I forget to actually ask you?” You pause for a moment, repeating his words in your mind over and over until, after a moment, you burst out laughing. He seems surprised by your outburst, and honestly so are you. After all this time wishing he had asked you to be his date, it turns out he had meant to do so all along and had simply forgotten.
“Oliver, you idiot,” you manage between laughs. He looks offended for a moment before he, too, joins in on the laughter.
“I know,” he says. “I really mucked that one up, didn’t I?” You nod a bit, giving him an adoring smile.
“It’s alright,” you say, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “I think it’s adorable. And for the record, I would have said yes if you actually remembered to ask me.” He smiles, stepping in closer and bringing an arm around your waist.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, lass. Now, will you allow me to have this dance?” You smile up at him, giving a gentle nod.
“I’d be honored.” And so, for a majority of the evening, the two of you dance. You go from slow dancing, to jumping up and down to a more upbeat song, to eventually just goofy free style in which you’re sure you make an absolute fool of yourself. Seeing Oliver’s smile, though, and hearing his laugh makes it all seem worth it.
By the end, the DJ decides to finish the ball off with one last slow song, and so you once again find yourself pressed gently to Oliver’s chest, cheek resting on his shoulder as you sway back and forth. Your eyes are closed and you’re not sure you’ve ever felt so at peace as a small smile creeps up your face.
After a moment, though, you hear Oliver clear his throat, sounding as though he’s nervous. Your smile widens.
“What are you worrying over now, Oliver?” He chuckles a bit, nerves still present. You lift your head, looking up at him with a questioning look. You’re still pressed against him, and so your faces are brought close to one another, only centimeters away. You hear his breath hitch and his eyes flicker down to your mouth and you smile. This boy…
You bite your bottom lip, half to tease him and half to quell your own nerves. “Oliver,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back up to yours. The two of you have stopped swaying now, and instead are standing completely still under the gentle lighting of the candles surrounding you. The light is reflected in his eyes and you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen anything so lovely.
You decide, after a moment of hesitation, to say so out loud. In another moment, you are unable to say anything at all as he leans down, pressing his mouth firmly to yours. You’re stunned for a moment, blinking stupidly at his scrunched up eyes before smiling a bit and closing your own, leaning into the kiss.
When you pull apart, you’re both breathless and smiling much too wide, but neither of you can find it in yourselves to care one bit. Instead, you continue swaying and occasionally - quite often, actually. Oliver is insatiable - kissing until the song ends and the ball is over. As you pull away from him, though, and meet his smile with your own, you know for sure this time that the two of you are just beginning.