J.J. McCarthy stood near the bar, a fresh win buzzing in his veins like a live wire. He was flanked by his crew—Justin Jefferson leaning against the counter with a lazy smirk, Jordan Addison trying to get the bartender’s attention, T.J. Hockenson’s booming laugh cutting over the track.

Then his gaze snagged.

On the dance floor, a few yards away.

She was spinning, her back to him. A dark purple dress—Vikings colors by accident, a detail he’d clock later—hugged every curve, the fabric shimmering under the strobes. Honey-blonde curls tumbled down her back, catching gold in the light. She was laughing, head thrown back, completely lost in the music and the moment. A taller girl with ash-brown hair—Harper—was dancing with her, yelling something in her ear.

JJ’s smile faded. His focus narrowed, tunneling until the noise around him muffled into a distant hum.

He stepped in behind her just as the song shifted to a slower, deeper beat. His hands settled on her hips, firm and sure, grounding her mid-spin.