in a hundred words.

Your smile is the only thing I can really comprehend as you ask me to dance. Your hand is at the small of my back as you lead me to the dance floor, where the lighting is dim and everything twinkles like a dream. 

And then you draw me close; my arms go around your neck and your hands are at my waist and I can just smell the scent of your aftershave that’s distinctly you. 

“Your hands are cold,” you whisper to me, amused.

I laugh softly, nervously. “But don’t you know? They always do that when you’re around.”