That Man Can Dance

Sloane

The elevator doors slide open, and I hear music before I even step into the apartment. Not just any music—Beyoncé, turned up loud enough that I can feel the bass in my chest.

I toe off my heels and follow the sound, my bag sliding from my shoulder to the floor. It's been a long day of meetings at the health department, presenting my findings on prenatal care deserts in underserved Pittsburgh neighborhoods. Important work. Exhausting work. Work that matters.

But nothing matters more than what I find when I round the corner into the living room.

Tucker is dancing.

He's got Shula in his left arm and Aurora in his right, both girls in matching purple onesies with little elephant prints. Silk scarves are draped everywhere—over the couch, trailing from his shoulders, one tied around his head like a bandana. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a faded Fury t-shirt, his feet bare, his hair a mess.

And he's absolutely lost in it, spinning in slow circles, dipping the girls gently, singing along to "Love on Top" at the top of his lungs.

My entire body responds.

It's ridiculous. He looks ridiculous. There is laundry everywhere, he's off-key, and I'm pretty sure that's spit-up on his shoulder.

But watching him dance with our daughters, completely unselfconscious, his face lit up with pure joy—I want to climb him like a tree.

"You gonna stand there staring, or you gonna join us?" Tucker calls without turning around.

"How did you—"

"Felt you watching." He spins to face me, and both babies squeal with delight. "Your girls have been waiting for you."

I cross the room, and Aurora immediately reaches for me, her tiny fist opening and closing. 

"Hi, baby girl." I take her from Tucker, breathing in that perfect baby smell—lotion and milk and something uniquely hers. "Did you have a good day with Daddy?"

"She had an excellent day," Tucker says, adjusting Shula on his hip. "We went to the park. We read seventeen books. We had a very serious conversation about the merits of mashed sweet potato versus mashed banana."

"And?"

"Banana won. Obviously." He grins at me over Shula’s downy curls. "How was your presentation?"

"Good. Really good." I bounce Aurora gently. "The director wants to implement my recommendations. We might actually get funding for mobile prenatal clinics."

"That's amazing, Sunshine." The pride in his voice makes my chest tight. "You're changing the whole system."

"One neighborhood at a time." I kiss Aurora's forehead. "But right now, I just want to be Mom."

"Then let's get these defenders ready for bed."

The next hour is a beautiful chaos of bath time, pajamas, and bedtime stories. 

Tucker helps get me situated in the armchair to nurse the girls. I’ve gotten really good at feeding two babies at once if they’re not squirming, and tonight they’re blissed out in my arms. By the time both girls are down in their cribs, sleeping soundly with their little fists curled beside their faces, I'm exhausted and content in equal measure.

I pad out of the room, gently closing the door, and notice that the apartment is spotless. The scarves are gone. The toys are put away. The kitchen counters are gleaming.

"Tucker?"

“In here.” He whispers yells from somewhere in our bedroom, and I hurry my pace, thinking about how hot my man looked in Dad-mode.

The bathroom door is ajar, warm light spilling out. I can see candles flickering, smell lavender and eucalyptus. I walk toward the sound of running water, my heart suddenly pounding. The tub is full of bubbles, surrounded by at least two dozen candles. My favorite playlist is softly thumping from the speaker. A glass of wine sits on the edge—red, the expensive kind I like.

And there on the bath mat, eyes bright, is Tucker, bent on one knee. 

My hand flies to my mouth.

"I've got something for you," he says, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. "Waiting for the perfect moment. The right restaurant, the right view, the right... something." He opens the box, and a simple diamond catches the candlelight. "But then I realized—this is perfect. You, coming home from work, that matters. Our daughters asleep down the hall. Us, right here, in the life we've built together."

Tears are already streaming down my face.

"Sloane Campbell, you are the strongest, fiercest, most incredible woman I've ever met. You challenge me. You see me. You let me see you, even when it scares you." His voice breaks. "You gave me a family. Not just the girls—though they're everything. But you gave me us. Partnership. Real, messy, beautiful partnership."

"Tucker—"

"I want to spend the rest of my life proving I'm worthy of you. That I see Sloane, not just Mom or my partner or any other role. Just you, in all your complicated, brilliant glory." He takes my hand. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes." The word comes out choked with tears. "Yes, of course, yes."

He slides the ring on my finger, and I pull him up, kissing him like I might die without it. He tastes like hope and home and forever.

"I love you," I say against his mouth. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." He pulls back to look at me, his hands framing my face. "Now get in that bath before it gets cold."

I glance at the tub, then back at him. "You know what? I'll think about it."

His eyebrows rise. "You'll think about—"

I push.

He goes over backwards with a spectacular splash, fully clothed, and comes up sputtering. Water cascades over the sides of the tub, soaking the bathmat, and bubbles are everywhere.

"Sloane!"

"What?" I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. “Was that not what you wanted?”

He stares at me for a moment, water dripping from his hair, his T-shirt clinging to his chest. Then he grins—that crooked, devastating grin that undid me in a pool seven months ago.

"You're going to pay for that."

"Promises, promises."

He lunges for me, but I dance back, pulling off my work clothes as I go. By the time I slide into the tub, I'm naked and he's stripped off his soaked clothes.

"Come here," he says, pulling me against his chest. "My fiancée."

"Fiancée," I repeat, testing the word. The ring glints on my finger, catching candlelight. "I like the sound of that."

"Good." He kisses my shoulder. "Because you're stuck with me now."

"I've been stuck with you since that pool party." I lean back into him, feeling his heart beat against my spine. "Best decision I ever made."

"Second best," he corrects. "The best decision was saying yes just now."

I turn in his arms, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. 

I trace the line of his jaw and enjoy the rumble from his chest. I lean in to his kiss, which quickly turns fierce.

We make out like it’s the first time, and I slide my legs around his waist, leaning back to welcome his length into my body. His mouth closes around a nipple, and he groans, pulling me close against his chest, where his heart hammers forcefully.

By the time Tucker slides a thick thumb in between our bodies, I’m already on the edge of release. We come together, so hard, water sloshing. Our bathroom is a mess of wet clothes and puddles, but I couldn’t care less as my forever rocks me down from the high with kisses and kind words.

After, we sit in the cooling water, surrounded by candles and bubbles and the quiet certainty of everything we've built. Down the hall, our daughters sleep. In the morning, Tucker will make pancakes, and I'll take a conference call. We'll navigate daycare, work meetings, and all the beautiful chaos of our life together.

But right now, it's just us. Tucker and Sloane. The enforcer and the activist. The man who shows up and the woman who lets him.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

"For what?"

"For waiting for me to be ready. For not giving up when I pushed you away. For building a life where I can be exactly who I am."

"Thank you for saying yes." 

When we finally climb out, dried off and wrapped in robes, I catch sight of us in the mirror. Tucker behind me, his arms around my waist. My left hand resting on his, the diamond catching light.

We look tired. Happy. Real.

We look like home.

"Ready for bed?" he asks.

"Soon." I turn to face him. "I want to check on the girls."

We walk down the hall together, peeking into the crib. Shula has kicked off her blanket. Aurora is sleeping with her little fist in her mouth. They're perfect and ours and everything we never knew we needed.

Tucker pulls me close as we stand in the doorway, watching our daughters dream.

"This," I whisper. "This is everything."

"This is just the beginning," he corrects, pressing a kiss to my temple. "We've got the whole rest of our lives."

And as we finally head to bed—engaged, exhausted, entirely in love—I can't help thinking that he's right.

This is just the beginning.

And I can't wait to see what comes next.

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