Thankfully, he did get a break after that whole swapping spit situation.
There were no more surprises. They just chatted while they finished their milkshakes, letting the afternoon settle into something easy. The conversation shifted back to music, this time without any lingering weight — just mindless back-and-forth about favorite bands, weirdest album covers, and which songs were best for screaming along to in the car. Then it drifted to movies, and somewhere along the way, she let something slip.
She liked animated movies.
The second the words were out of her mouth, she looked like she wanted to die. He could actually see the horror dawn in real-time, her face going still before she shrank into herself, clearly regretting ever speaking. And honestly? He thought it was kind of funny. This was what finally got her looking so mortified? Not all the teasing she threw at him, not the way she fearlessly stole his drink without thinking twice and drank from his straw, but admitting she liked animated movies?
It was stupidly endearing.
After they were done, they got up to pay, but not before Penguin slipped a couple of dollars under her cup for the waitress. She paid without complaint, though when she handed the money to the hostess, she mumbled something about him being so high-maintenance and expensive, like he'd just ordered the priciest thing on the menu instead of a damn milkshake. He just rolled his eyes at her attempt, mostly because she wasn't even trying to sound annoyed. Not with that twitch in her lips, like she was fighting back a smile.
"I'll pay you back," he'd promised, nudging her lightly with his arm.
"Sure," she'd drawled, shooting the hostess a look that practically screamed 'can you believe this guy?' The woman nodded solemnly, like they were both in on some grand joke at his expense.
Seriously. Why did all the women in his life gang up on him? His mom, Ash, Penguin… Was it something about his face? Did he just radiate an energy that made girls want to team up and roast him? Because at this point, he was starting to think it was a curse.
At least she still drove him back to his truck afterward, though it didn't stop his brain from replaying the entire night on a damn loop. Even after he got home, even after he flopped into bed, it stayed with him. The way she made him laugh, how easy it felt just being with her, how casually she just swapped straws with him…
At some point, he must've dreamed about it. He didn't remember much, just a vague sense of warmth, the kind that curled through his chest and settled somewhere deep. Something soft against his skin, something that made his stomach dip — gentle, fleeting. A familiar presence, close enough to touch.
But then he woke up with his face mashed into his pillow, drool soaking into the fabric, and the whole thing slipped away.
Still, for the rest of the morning, something clung to him — some half-formed thought, a feeling just out of reach. His lips felt tingly, like the ghost of a sensation he couldn't quite place. He tried not to think too hard about it.
That didn't stop his brain from circling back to her anyway.
Now, hours later, he was still stewing in it.
The absolutely mind-numbing lecture his history teacher had been droning on about did nothing to distract him. Fifth period, twenty minutes after lunch, two hours away from the end of the school day, when he'd head to Penguin's house to work on their poster. He was in no state to be sitting still, let alone daydreaming in the middle of class.
The second the teacher turned her back, he'd grabbed his stuff and slipped out the door in record time. Now, he was making lazy loops around the school, thoughts running circles around him in return.
He couldn't stop thinking about yesterday.
About them talking through that stupid misunderstanding, the brief moment where she'd honestly thought he wouldn't want to be around her after she kissed his cheek. About her interactions with Travis and the weird, complicated tangle of feelings they left him with. About holding her hand again — how natural it felt, how easily she slipped her fingers between his like it was the most obvious thing in the world. About eating with her somewhere that didn't have plastic trays and greasy paper wrappers and shitty burgers.
About the way he'd called her his lady in his head like the lovesick idiot he now admits he is.
And about the straws. The goddamn straws.
He barely registers his own movement before he's making a sharp detour to the nearest bathroom, twisting the sink handle and shoving cold water onto his face. His cheeks are already burning, dammit.
He takes a moment to brace his elbows on the sink and sigh, dropping his head. He watches as his hair slips off his shoulders to rest against the wet ceramic, the strands turning a little darker from soaking up the water.
They'd been getting a lot closer. Which was amazing. They met, what, a month ago? He'd technically known about her for almost three months before that. And then he fell so fucking hard for her he's surprised his body hadn't cracked the imaginary sidewalk.
Apparently, love at first sight was a real thing. Who woulda thunk?
His eyes slide toward his wrist, fingers finding the bracelet she made him. He tugs at it absently, rubbing his thumb over the worn threads. He's been wearing it practically every day, only taking it off to shower. He learned pretty quickly that soggy bracelets suck.
It's weird, he never thought he'd feel this way about someone. Not like this. Not this fast. But… he doesn't think he minds. It helps that she feels the same way, that she fell first. He didn't fall for someone who wouldn't reciprocate his feelings, which… he doesn't know why, but it soothes him. It settles something in his chest, knowing she wants him around.
But now what?
They cuddle. They hold hands. They go out to eat together — not dates, obviously. She kissed his cheek once. She leaves him little gifts like it's the most normal thing in the world.
So where is he supposed to go from here?
He doesn't feel ready to confess — not yet — but he also doesn't want to just sit in these feelings forever. He needs to do something. He just doesn't know what.
Pushing off the sink with a frustrated sigh, he shoves his hands in his pockets and steps out into the hallway—
And immediately locks eyes with a prom poster taped to the wall across from him.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He almost slammed face-first into the wall from how fast he power-walked to get close enough to read the poster. He barely managed to stop himself, feet skidding against the tile as he planted his hands on either side of it like it held the meaning of life itself.
It might as well.
He'd completely forgotten that prom was even a thing that happened. And then boom — he's wondering where he should go with his relationship with Penguin, and the universe just hands him a potential answer.
He scans the details, squinting like that'll help him absorb them faster.
Prom Night
Celebration!
May 15th - 7PM
Nockfell High School
Juniors and Seniors
Last Day to Buy Tickets: May 13th
Shit.
They're still selling tickets until tomorrow, so technically, he could buy them some, but—
Does he actually want to invite her this damn late? Like, yeah, obviously he does, but should he? It's prom. He's seen how people talk about it. He's read about how much effort girls put into it. How they spend months looking for dresses and planning their hair and whatever else goes into it.
She doesn't seem like the kind of girl who'd care about that stuff — if she had, she probably would've been talking about prom already — but still. The people on this poster are dressed really fancy-like. Does he even own a suit? The only thing he remembers wearing to a formal event was whatever his mom forced him into when he was a kid. And even if he has one, does it even fit him anymore?
And what about tickets? How much are they? He's got some money saved in his truck, so it's not like he couldn't buy them. Fuck, is prom basically just a fancy date? If he asks her, isn't he basically confessing? But if he doesn't, isn't he just wasting the opportunity?
His fingers tighten on the edges of the poster as he realizes he's thinking about it too hard.
He walked to the front of the school and shoved open the front doors before he thought about it even more, stepping into the afternoon sunlight. His feet carried him toward his truck like muscle memory, but his brain was still back in the hallway.
With a huff, he yanked open the truck door and flopped into the driver's seat, but instead of starting the engine, he sat there. Staring blankly at the dashboard, fingers drumming against his thigh. He could just go home. He could go inside, throw himself on his bed, and forget about prom entirely.
Or.
He popped open the middle console and dug around for the wad of cash he kept in there. The bills were a little crumpled, jammed between a cassette case and an old receipt, but it was more than enough.
He exhaled sharply, bracing himself, then got back out of the truck. His legs felt weirdly shaky as he walked back into the school, like his body wasn't fully on board with what he was doing.
By the time he reached the front office, the air felt too thick in his lungs, but he still approached the counter. The woman at the desk, some secretary he'd seen around but never actually talked to, glanced up at him.
"Do you need help with something?"
"Uh. Yeah. Two prom tickets," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck.
The woman gave him a slow, knowing look. Not judgmental, not exactly, but definitely assessing. Her eyes flicked over him, then toward the clock on the wall like she was doing some mental math.
"You're cutting it a little close," she remarked, already reaching for the ticket form. "Prom's this Saturday."
"Yeah, I know," he muttered.
"Last-minute date?"
His face burned instantly. "Just—" he cleared his throat. "Can I just get the form?"
She hummed like she knew something he didn't, but didn't push it, sliding the sheet toward him.
"Name here, student number here," she said, tapping a few lines with her pen. "Sign at the bottom. And since you're getting two, your date's name needs to go here."
He paused, pen hovering over the paper.
Right. He had to write her name. He was getting these tickets for her.
His hand moved before his brain could linger on it too long, and he scrawled Penguin's full name across the line. The only reason he knows it is because she wrote down their names on the essay part of the project and he's seen it. Even just seeing it there made his heart do something stupid in his chest.
He shoved the form and his money back across the counter, suddenly desperate to get out of there.
The woman took them, gave the form a once-over, and then, finally, slid the tickets toward him.
"There you go," she said, a little too knowingly. "Have fun, kid."
He picked them up, heart hammering as he stared at them in his hand.
Holy shit.
He actually did it.
Now all he had to do was ask her.
It had to be today, because otherwise it would be even more late. But, again, how?
He spends the rest of the school day chewing on the question, turning it over in his mind like a rubik's cube. The longer he thinks about it, the harder it gets to actually do anything about it. He wants to ask, but every time he imagines opening his mouth, he draws a blank. What if he fumbles it? What if it comes out weird? What if she—
No, fuck that, she wouldn't say no. He knows that. He knows that.
But the nerves don't care.
They follow him through his next couple of classes, through the usual routine of saying goodbye to everyone at the end of the day, through the drive behind her car as she drops off Travis. He's busy staring at the back of her car, heart climbing into his throat as they get closer to her house.
It's fine. He'll figure it out.
Except by the time he parks and follows her inside, the nerves are too much, and he shoves them aside in favor of focusing on the project instead. They need to finish this damn thing, get a good grade, and make sure she graduates on time. He's not about to fuck that up for her just because he can't stop worrying about whether he should open his big mouth or not.
So, for now, the tickets stay buried deep in his back pocket.