The whole gymnasium flooded with applause as the serval landed on the polished plywood floor after a spectacle of flips and twirls. She flashed a blinding smile to the infatuated audience, her exposed midriff rising and falling with every pant.

Electric. That was the word that came to mind. Not only the atmosphere of the crowd, but everything about her gave off an irresistible static. It shone in her eyes, bounced in her step, and sizzled in her voice. She seemed to me like the type of person who could rejuvenate another just by talking to them. All from that cheerleading performance. It was clear she had star power. Most of the audience had long since abandoned the basketball game behind her. She had the spotlight, and she thrived under it.

That was the first time I saw her. She was just a freshman, only starting out. Then again, so was I, the newly elected secretary in his junior year. I wouldn't describe it at love at first sight; I suppose I am too cynical for that. But it was an intrigue, a subconscious taste in the back of my tongue of which I hoped to taste more of in the future. I could still feel the crackles in the air.

Iris was seated next to me. She said the serval was the new head cheerleader. Despite being her so new to the academy, that didn't surprise me. It's hard to imagine her as anything else. Obligation led me to speak to her once the game ended. Despite our team losing the match, it would be a shame to at least not congratulate the cheerleading squad for their hard work. I chatted with the other females so as to not appear callous, but my true intentions were set on her. What would she sound like? What would she say? A female carnivore… It must be too good to be true.

It wasn't.

I very much would liked to have recorded our first interaction to study it later. I had never met a more naturally charming individual. All of the social handicaps given to meat-eaters, all of the obstacles that prevent us from popularity, none of it seemed to matter to her. She simply floated above all of those notions as if they were only little ants in the grass. Electrifying.

However, I am a horrible person, regardless. I expect the worse from people, especially carnivores. I knew that no matter how easy she made it look, it couldn't possibly be so. Perhaps she had even tasted meat. But even so, she dwarfed my efforts completely; I only managed to win the position of secretary, after all. Yet, she still somehow left me feeling incredibly inspired. No matter how little she made me feel, she also made it seem like anything is possible with enough hard work. Or maybe that was just her smile stunning me into a delusional state.

After our first encounter, we met several times during school events. She seemed to be everywhere. Not Eloise or even Iris could match her commitment. And every time, we exchanged pleasantries. Nothing of interest, nothing I could even recall.

But I always recalled the warmth that simmered in my chest as we parted ways.

Electric shock therapy.

Molly whistles. "Wow, Hafsa. I've seen females less dolled up for their wedding day."

Ignoring the obvious sarcasm in her roommate's voice, Hafsa gives a little twirl in order to fully show off her fluttering strapless teal dress. It floats to a stop until its flowing hem settles at the serval's ankles, the slit reaching just above her knee subtly exposing her left leg. She offers one last teasing curtsy, crossing her black ballerina flats-adorned feet in an elegant motion (she doesn't dare wear anything with heels).

"What, this ol' thing?" She simpers.

"No, I meant the dress this ol' thing is wearing."

"Shut it, you." She fetches her clutch from the coat rack and gives one last wave. "I'll be going now. I should be back by midnight."

"I guess the pumpkin carriage doesn't run any later."

"Bye, stepmother."

With the clacking of her flats against the pavement, she makes her way to the bus stop and gets on the first one that will take her to the prom venue, subtly noticing all the hungry stares she receives. When she looks this good, she can't help but feel like a herbie in the black market. But she would be lying if she said the predatory males didn't stroke her ego.

As the twinkling lights of the city grow ever closer, she ponders on just how perfect the last weeks have been. Ever since Solomon shut down the Ezekiel's blackmail attempt, not a single thing has gone wrong. DAVID only popped up for occasional interrogations during assembly, which was perfectly allowed, and her social life and grades have never been better. Now in the ides of March, life is exactly where it should be.

And after tonight, she will have a boyfriend.

She's decided.

After a dozen or so stops, she arrives at the venue. Before her, a grand five star hotel sparkles in front of her, the famous Curia Pompeia. The sprawling entrance guides her in with marbled stepping stones, giving her time to admire the ornate hedge sculptures, fountains and dancing lights that line the path. A banner with "Welcome, Noah's Arc Academy seniors!" hangs under the ivy-covered archway that leads into the hotel's sliding door entrance.

Though not a senior, Hafsa is still a guest of honor, being the student council president and primary organizer of the very event. The venue's splendor is every bit as impressive as she imagined when planning it. If Noah's Arc can do one thing right, it has a hell of a prom budget.

Tuxedoed attendants usher her to the ballroom reserved for the party. Though the layout is familiar to her on paper, seeing the actual location dressed to the nines in twinkling curtains of lights, silvery balloons and long white dining tables is a completely different experience. Happy seniors help themselves to the five star spread, talk amongst themselves and gyrate on the spacious dance floor to the booming tunes mastered by the nearby DJ booth. Further down, an open floor-to-ceiling glass door leads to the pool and lounge area. Thankfully, none of the animals had jumped in the pool, but knowing seniors, Hafsa has a feeling that a splash will be inevitable. Nonetheless, the area provides a breath of fresh night air and a more quiet place to talk, all illuminated in an undulating blue tinge thanks to the pool lights.

The president lets out a contented sigh. She truly is a genius. After mentally patting herself on the back while waving to passing familiar faces, she begins her journey deeper into the gorgeous bowels of the ballroom, trying to spot any student council members. Ultimately, she ends up being the one spotted.

"Hafsaaaa!" An ecstatic voice cries against the blaring music. Before she can turn to meet the voice, her back is tackled by a very soft, very short, and very plump frame.

"Hey, Brian!" She greets, not needing to look behind to know who it is.

"So glad you made it! Welcome to prom!"

"Of course I made it! Wouldn't miss it for the world. Now lemme get a good look at you."

She squeezes out of the bird's tight embrace and peers down. The rock dove strikes a pose, revealing his… rustic suit. It's a drab brown color, dulled from age, clearly had some repairing done, and fit just a little too tightly against the bird's rubenesque figure. The garish striped tie that stretches down his chest does nothing to improve the image.

"Like it? It was my dad's wedding tux!" He chips, expectantly wiggling his tail feathers.

Not even a catty fashionista like Hafsa could dare speak bad of the suit. "You look so handsome! I-I didn't know you had anything other than graphic tees!"

"A gentleman always comes prepared." He hums proudly. Hafsa makes another mature decision to point out that comeback didn't make a lot of sense in context. Instead, she opts to make small talk.

"Did Humbert see you in your Sunday best? Oh, did you maybe invite him here?"

Brian blushes. "N-no way I could do that. But maybe I'll be leaving a little earlier than others. He's picking me up."

"Sounds like prom is just the beginning, huh?" The serval teases.

"Gosh, enough about me!" He flails his arms, trying to physically dispel the conversation. "You didn't even let me say how cute you look!"

Now it's Hafsa's turn to get flustered. "You think? I dunno…"

The pigeon frames her in his fingers. "You're picture perfect, Pres! Oh, speaking of which, we gotta find Desmond and Sol so we can all take selfies together! There's a photographer here, too! Which, I mean you already knew."

The female's ears prick up. "Desmond and Solomon…? They're here already?"

"Sure! I came here with Desmond! He's technically my plus one!" His expression turns flirtatious. "You should go find Sol. I'm sure he wants to tell you what a good job you did planning the prom."

The serval chuckles nervously. Is her paranoia getting to her or is Brian in on it?

"I might just do that…" She trails off, and flees into the crowd. She takes a moment to recollect herself amongst the mix of dancing and talking students and until she realizes something.

She needs to eat.

God knows she cannot get through tonight on an empty stomach. With a new goal in mind, she marches to the refreshment table. An assortment of finger food, salty and sweet covers every inch of the clothed surface. Even the teenaged-appetite sized dent in the spread left by the other guests doesn't stand a chance against the dutiful hotel servants who filter in and out with more fresh food.

Hafsa settles for a glass of punch and some egg salad blini bites. Despite the snacks' deliciousness, it seems a bit high end for teenagers. Something to think about for next prom, she supposes.

Unfortunately, her distracted mind is thrust back into reality when she spots a pair of dark horns jut out amongst a table of students.

Desmond, sat in between people he clearly doesn't know, dutifully wolfs down a formidable pile of sweets he hoards. The ram seems focused on that task above all else, not even appearing to notice there is a prom going on around him. Hafsa considers slinking away and pretending she hadn't even seen him, both to leave him to eat in peace and to avoid any potential awkwardness. But despite her better judgment, she approaches anyway.

"Pie-eating contest is down the hall, bucko." She taps him on the shoulder in fake severity.

The ram's eyes widen to the size of the plate beneath him and he lurches forward, preventing himself from hacking up a mouthful of chewed-up dessert. After a short seizure, he manages to dry swallow what remains and with a disgusted sigh, slinks down back into his seat.

"Why hello, Hafsa."

The Hafsa in question refrains from bursting out in laughter. Instead, she places a hand on her tilted cheek and tuts at him.

"For the Vice President to pigging out in the middle of a party… How utterly improper."

"The Vice President has literally nothing else to do. The Vice President holds the humble opinion that parties suck ass."

He shifts his chair to better face her, and for the first time sees her outfit proper. His sarcastic scowl melts off with a gulp, replaced by a reddened terrified expression.

"You… uh. You look nice."

Hafsa reciprocates his reddening. "Um. Thank you. You do too."

This isn't a lie. Desmond's fashion has always been a little sloppy, and his suit is no exception. His tie is loose, his dress shirt isn't properly tucked, and his jacket isn't buttoned. But he looks unbelievably handsome.

It's always been effortless, his good looks. Even now, she doubts he has any idea of how attractive he is, from his combed wool right down to his only good pair of dress shoes. Hilariously enough, the only part of his wardrobe he seems to have put considerable effort into is his polished horns, which glisten in the party lights.

"You're kind of an optical illusion right now." Hafsa jokes, trying to ease the sudden tension. "Black and white suit, black and white wool."

"Well, you know what they say. If you're nervous, just imagine everyone in the room naked. I'm just making it easier for nervous people. How considerate am I?"

His friend snorts. "You're a saint, Des."

The music that engulfs the venue fades out from an intense techno beat to a more traditional R&B jam. Hafsa's whiskers twitch in delight, recognizing the rhythm.

"Oh, this song is amazing!" She exclaims. "The music is calling me."

"Far be it from me to prevent you from answering the music's call." He waves her off, already returning to his stack of sweets.

She falters, however. Still unmoving, she links her hands behind her. "Come dance with me."

"…Huh?" Desmond's voice is tiny.

"Just one song. Then you can go back to being miserable."

"I-I…" He stammers. "I don't dance. On any occasion, for any reason."

Hafsa rolls her eyes. "Yes, we get it, you're super cool and manly, you macho man, you. Now get your butt over here before I bust out the invisible lasso and drag you here myself."

The thought of being carried by Hafsa entices him, but he saves himself the public embarrassment, especially since his neighboring dining companions are beginning to take notice. So with a melodramatic grunt, he lifts himself from his seat and follows the feline's swishing tail onto the dance floor.

The ram stands still against the sea of swaying animals, unsure of what exactly to do, but the towering female moves in to help.

"Follow my lead." She instructs.

He nods. With a smile, she begins to step side to side to the tempo of the song. Hesitantly, the ram follows her movement, albeit more clumsily.

"It's a slow groove," Hafsa explains. "So you wanna just relax and follow the rhythm."

"Uh-huh." He mumbles, knowing full well he cannot hear the song over his pounding heart.

"Wider steps." Her moves get bigger, more fluid. The sheep mimics the change, looking down at his feet and consequently scraping Hafsa's nose with his horns.

"Woah, slow down there." She tilts his horns back up, meeting his panicked gaze. "Make sure you focus on your partner."

That's what he was afraid of.

"Now pop a little shimmy, like this!" She waggles her shoulders, completing the movement with a full-body roll.

"Oh, come on."

"It's easy!"

Doubting her words, he complies anyways. His sad version of the shoulder pop is a poor imitation at best, but it makes the serval bite her tongue in hilarity.

The duo continues this 'monkey see monkey do' dance session until the ram's stiffness begins to melt away somewhat. He even begins to smile at the increasingly goofy moves the serval whips out.

"Now we can do the cowboy trot!" She declares in a horrible drawl, trotting in place with her wrist high in the air, looping an imaginary lasso.

"No way!" He bleats, stifling a cackle. "This isn't even a country song!"

"You're right, you're right." She lowers her arms, placing them on Desmond's shoulders, who suddenly fights the urge to drop dead.

"Man," She giggles. "I missed dancing so much. Makes me wish I was back in cheerleading."

"You should go back." Desmond replies, slowly inching his hand towards her waist. "It was good for you. I saw how happy you were during matches."

"Hm…" The female ponders with a troubled expression. "Maybe. But then again…" Her eyes sink down towards her right clavicle. Her jagged scar peeks out from her dress, stopping just below her exposed shoulder.

Her partner's expression saddens. "Hafsa… You can't live your whole life hiding that scar. Don't let something so stupid stop you from doing what you want."

"It's not stupid." She protests with furrowed brows.

"It is. You're Serval motherfucking Hafsa. Queen of Noah's Arc. Slayer of Sheep. If anyone has a problem with that, they're wrong."

Hafsa's face puffs up until it explodes with raucous laughter, causing nearby dancers stop to stare. Still howling, she ducks down, burying her face in Desmond's neck for support as her hands weakly slap his chest.

"Ha… hahaha… ha… Slayer of Sheep… pfff, haha! I like that one…" She wheezes, trying her best to regain composure.

"Feel free to use it." The sheep murmurs, very aware of how close they are.

The female straightens herself back up, hands still on his chest. They creep up to the base of his neck, and wrap around the loose collar of his tie. She pulls the fabric back up and straightens it out, looking down with a fond expression.

"That was driving me crazy."

"I'm in love with you."

…

…

…

"…What?"

Her question comes out as a ragged whisper. She's terrified looking up at his eyes, but gambles anyway.

They're completely serious.

"I love you, Hafsa."

The serval grabs his hand and forcefully snatches him off of the dance floor. She effectively drags him all the way to the outside pool lounge like a rag doll, flinging him free about twenty meters past the roped limits of the area, lit up by the inaccessible luxury pool and far from the commotion of prom.

Desmond crosses his arms but remains silent. Hafsa however wastes no time in talking.

"What is wrong with you?!" She hisses. "What if someone heard you?!"

"Are you going to say yes?"

"Wh-wha—"

"When Solomon asks you out tonight." He repeats with frightening calm. "Are you going to say yes?"

"How did you…"

"Hafsa."

Both the serval's teeth and her fists clench to the point of something breaking. She tosses her head to the side with a frustrated sigh. "Why…? Why are you doing this to me?"

Desmond reaches for her, taking her larger hands in his. "Don't do it. Please."

She feels the warmth of his palms, all heat and sweat. The music now a distant beat, she can clearly hear his heartbeat even at this distance, desperate and pleading just like his words. She yanks her hands away from his hold.

"Everything was so perfect…" She mourns. "We were perfect… why did you have to go and ruin it?"

"I needed to tell you." He insists, voice now weakened by emotion. "I had a whole plan but… as usual, you always surprise me."

Hafsa's breath hitches. Breathing in and out has never seemed so impossible. "I'm sorry if… I'm sorry if I gave off that impression but..."

"Hafsa, please." Desmond begs. "For once in your fucking life, please just be honest. Please stop lying. We're not just friends and you fucking know it. I know you feel it too."

Hafsa stares back at his eyes, both pairs wide with terror. Her jaw shakily opens and flaps around uselessly, no sound coming out. Finally, she manages a croak.

"I… can't. I'm sorry."

The ram's panic turns into frustration. "So it's Solomon, then? You love him?"

"This isn't about Solomon."

"It's me, then? Am I really some delusional loser who fell into a one-sided love with a fucking carnivore?"

"IT'S ME!" Hafsa shouts.

He falls silent.

"You don't know what you mean to me, Desmond. If I tried to explain…" Her words peter out. The only suitable replacement is her touch, which she shakily extends towards his face, but stops herself halfway.

"But you're asking me to choose between me and my future. And no matter how I feel about you, I can't throw away my future."

No one says anything for what must be two dozen eternities. Then, in a voice all but defeated, Desmond asks one final question.

"Would being with me… ruin your future?"

"…It would."

Desmond exhales.

"…Okay. I understand. I'm sorry."

"Des, I…"

Words once again prove insufficient. If everything ends now, then it will end for good.

She takes his face in her hands, nestled between his curled horns. Her thumb strokes his cheeks, greedily savoring the wooly texture and the burning heat underneath. She glances down at his lips, parted in shock, then up towards his nose, sniffling and hyperventilating, and lastly, towards his dark, broken eyes.

She moves her face towards his.

And then she sees nothing.

She imagines he tastes very sweet, even though she can't perceive it. Just like the desserts he was eating. Hafsa wonders whether his eyes are closed or not. She wonders if it even matters. Right now, in this wonderful, horrible moment, she doesn't want anything else to matter. The very next second could be their last.

Eventually, it is.

She pulls away, the male's lips chasing after but stopping as if he had snapped out of a dream.

They gaze into each other's eyes one last time, for what Hafsa hopes is the last.

And then she leaves to go make the wrong choice.

Sure enough, when she meets Solomon and they speak, and embrace, and kiss, he fails to taste the sweetness in her mouth.

AN: Thank you for reading. So... That was something.

I'm honestly so excited to write the rest of the story, I have a really fun direction to take it. It makes me want to write the whole thing in one go and just get it out of my system. If only... For now I will remain creatively constipated.

Take it easy and stay safe.