Oz wasn't sure how it came to this, with the three of them lying close together, their limbs surrounding each other like vines, binding and tangled.
Willow's head rested against his chest, her red hair bright against his black t-shirt. Xander's large, warm presence behind him was a reminder--even now, he and Willow didn't touch much, even though Oz could see how much they wanted to. But they didn't, afraid of driving him away from them with hurt and betrayal and the simplicity of the two of them.
He ran his fingers through Willow's hair and stroked Xander's arm where it curled around Oz's waist. The honesty in their eyes did as much to shred his jealousy as their dancing; he lay there and listened to them breathe, and wondered how he could build the last bridge between them.