It was Saturday. And Larry was staring at himself in the mirror.

He didn't know why he'd woken up at the asscrack of dawn, but he had. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was excitement. Maybe it was his body betraying him just to make today even longer than it needed to be. Either way, he'd been up since way too early, buzzing with too much energy, and had absolutely nothing to do with it.

He'd spent the morning helping his mom around the apartment, trying to keep his hands busy, but that only lasted so long before he started going stir-crazy again.

After lunch, he grabbed the walkie-talkie and asked Sal if he was free. He was, so he hauled himself upstairs and spent the next few hours playing games in his best friend's apartment, keeping his brain too occupied to spiral. That helped. Mostly.

But the second the clock hit four, Larry was gone. He barely managed a half-assed goodbye before heading back down to his place, stomach twisting with something between excitement and dread.

Step one: shower. And not just any shower. The same ridiculous, borderline self-destructive routine he'd done the first time he was about to go to Penguin's house. Which meant drowning himself in shampoo lather, letting the scent practically seep into his brain, and using way more conditioner than necessary.

Then he squeezed his hair to get rid of the excess water and stepped out, water dripping down his back as he blindly reached for the towel. He leaned forward to let his hair fall over his shoulders and then scrubbed his body dry. After tugging his boxers and sweatpants on, he wrapped his hair up in a towel — just like his mom taught him — and headed back to his room to get dressed.

Stepping into his room, he eyed the suit hanging neatly on the back of his desk chair. It still felt weird, seeing it there, waiting for him. He really was doing this.

He let out a slow breath before reaching up to pull the towel from his head, flipping his hair back into place. The ends were still wet, so he grabbed the drier side of the towel and patted out the excess water before reaching for the brush his mom had given him that morning. As he brushed through any stubborn tangles, he caught his reflection in the mirror, watching the way his hair settled.

…What was he supposed to do with it?

Leaving it down was the easiest option, but maybe he should switch it up. Half-up, half-down could be a solid choice. It'd keep his hair out of his face without making him look too formal. A regular ponytail could work too — simple, easy…

Setting down the brush, he ran his fingers through his hair, checking how damp it still was. Not bad — definitely not dry, but not wet enough to soak through his clothes. Good enough.

With a huff, he turned to where his suit was hanging, eyeing it for a second before grabbing the white button-up. He slid it on, shaking his arms to let the fabric settle before reaching back to untuck his hair. Turning to the mirror, he started fastening the buttons from the bottom up, frowning a little at his reflection.

The shirt felt weird.

Reaching up, he tugged at the collar, popping it before immediately cringing and flattening it back down. Then he tugged at it again. It was stiff, too close to his throat, and itchy. He scowled and undid the top two buttons, exhaling when the fabric finally stopped strangling him. Yeah. Definitely made the right call skipping the bowtie.

With that settled, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and shoved them down, kicking them off with one foot and then hopping a little to get the other leg free. He flicked them toward the bed, grabbed the suit pants, and pulled them on, tucking the shirt inside of them.

Bending his legs, he tested how much movement he had, already wincing at the stretch in the fabric. The only reason he didn't try doing the splits was because a) he couldn't, and b) these pants were kinda tight on his thighs — if he even attempted it, they'd rip immediately. Yeah, no way he was pulling any stunts in these. Not that he was planning on it, but if he had to, the pants would absolutely betray him.

At least the next part was more his speed.

Grabbing his studded belt, he threaded it through the loops and buckled it tight before reaching for his pant chain, clipping it into place. That was better. Just those two things made a difference. Looking at his reflection again, he felt more like himself instead of some dude playing dress-up.

With a nod to himself, he walked over to where his boots were, picking them up before making his way to the bed. Sitting down heavily at the edge, he reached for the socks he'd tossed into the covers earlier. He slipped one on, tucked his foot into his boot, then leaned down to tie the laces. He repeated the process with the other foot, and soon enough, both boots were on — pants neatly tucked into them, hiding the fact that they were just a little shorter than they should be.

That done, he got up and finally grabbed the suit jacket. Shrugging it on, he patted at the collar and front, tugging a little at the shoulders to make it sit right. It was a bit snug there, probably because he'd bulked up a little since he last wore it. He wasn't huge or anything, still pretty lean, but he swore his shoulders and arms were getting broader.

He glanced at his wrists, noting that the sleeves were just short enough to leave room for his cuffs. Good. He picked them up from his dresser and snapped them around his wrists, then grabbed her bracelet and slipped it on, too. At this point, it practically lived there.

As he slipped a couple of rings onto his fingers, he stepped back and looked at himself in the mirror.

Huh. He actually looked… nice.

Not in a fancy way — he wasn't fooling himself into thinking he'd fit in with the guys who actually had time to buy their suits — but in a him way. He still looked like Larry Johnson, just a little more put together, like he'd actually made an effort for once.

And, well. He had.

His fingers hovered near the collar of his jacket, adjusting it slightly before dragging down the lapels. He felt weirdly antsy, a little restless, but in a good way. A jittery, excited way. Maybe it was just the buzz of anticipation, knowing he was about to pick her up and see what she looked like all dressed up, too.

Which was insane to think about, actually. Because it was her. Penguin, of all people.

The same girl who cycled through the same three pairs of jeans and the same seven shirts, and yes, he's counted. For someone with a closet full of clothes — he knew she had a full closet, considering he'd had to dig through it before, don't ask why — she barely seemed to use a quarter of it. At least he tried to get as much use out of his clothes as he could.

And yet, even in those same outfits, she always managed to look good. Effortlessly so. Like she didn't even have to try.

Which meant that tonight, when she actually was trying—

Larry swallowed hard. God. She was gonna look amazing, wasn't she?

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply at the thought. It was stupid how his heart jumped just thinking about it. He needed to chill. Maybe he should put on some cologne. That was a normal thing guys did for events like this, right? His eyes scanned the top of his dresser, but nope. He didn't have any. Not a single bottle of anything remotely cologne-like.

He frowned, crossing his arms. He'd never really cared about that stuff before, but now that he was about to go pick her up, now was the moment his brain decided he should smell nice?

Well, there was always his mom's perfume, but, uh… no.

He'll have to figure something else out.

With that in mind, he checked himself over one last time before deciding he looked good enough. He grabbed his keys and wallet, shoving them into his pockets, and took a steadying breath. Alright. Time to go.

The second he stepped out of his room and pulled the door shut behind him, he heard a soft gasp.

"Oh, Larry…"

He barely had a second to react before his mom was in front of him, hands pressed to her chest like she might just melt from how precious she found this moment. His ears went hot immediately. And then she stepped closer, cupping his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones like he was some kind of miracle.

"Look at you…" she breathed, eyes shining with warmth, with so much pride that he almost had to look away.

He let out a grumbling huff, but there was no stopping the way his lips quirked up. "It's not like I'm getting married, Ma."

Lisa smiled, giving his face a light squeeze. "No, but my baby's all grown up and taking a girl to prom." She let her hands fall to his shoulders, giving them a small shake. "I can't believe you cleaned up so nice. You're so handsome, my god, you're gonna have her all over you—"

"Ma!"

Lisa beamed at his embarrassment, but then she softened, squeezing his shoulders again. "You're gonna have fun tonight, baby. Just enjoy it, okay?"

He let out a breath and nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

"Alright," she grinned, finally letting him go but trailing behind him as he made his way toward the front door. "Do you have everything? Keys?"

"Yes."

"The tickets?"

"Mhm."

"Flowers?"

"Ye— Flowers?" He stopped in his tracks, whipping around so fast his hair nearly smacked her in the face. "What do you mean flowers?" His brows furrowed, confusion shifting into something a lot worse when he saw the way she squinted at him.

Lisa crossed her arms. "Did you forget her flowers?"

"I was supposed to get her flowers?" he squeaked, his stomach dropping. His fingers twitched against his thigh before immediately reaching for her bracelet, rolling the loose strings at the end between his fingers like that would somehow make up for the way his heart had just plummeted.

Fuck.

His mind raced, flipping through every movie, every TV show, every half-assed romance trope he'd ever been subjected to. Guys always bring flowers. Always. It was, like, a thing. They showed up at the door all dressed up with some fancy bouquet, and the girl would smile real big and smell them, and it was a whole thing. Even the dumbasses in sitcoms knew that much, and somehow, he hadn't thought of it?

And she deserved flowers, didn't she? She was gonna look gorgeous, and he was gonna show up empty-handed? Not even a single dumb little rose?

Oh god. Oh god, he sucked.

His mom exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. "You forgot, didn't you?"

He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. "…Maybe."

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head as she turned toward the kitchen. "Lucky for you, I know my son."

Before he could ask what that meant, she disappeared around the corner, and for a second, he swore he could hear the fridge opening. A beat later, she returned with a small bouquet in hand — soft pinks, whites, and hints of purple woven together in a way that somehow looked both casual and carefully arranged.

His eyes immediately caught on the pink roses and lilacs, the only two flowers he could name off the top of his head. The rest? No clue. But who cared? They were flowers. And he had them now.

His whole body sagged with relief. "Oh my god, I love you. You saved me."

His mom grinned, giving his arm a teasing pat as she handed the bouquet over. "I try my best."

Holding them in his hands, he turned them slightly, taking in the delicate details. They were pretty. Soft and fresh, not too over-the-top, but definitely nice enough for Penguin.

And… huh. She had lilacs in her yard.

His eyes flicked down to the bouquet again, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "How'd you know she likes lilacs?"

Lisa gave him a knowing smile. "I have my ways."

He narrowed his eyes. "Did she come to tell you somehow?"

"I have my ways," she repeated, drawing out the words as she gave his arm a squeeze and turned toward the counter.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. Whatever. Whether it was a lucky guess or some weird mom sorcery, it worked out. And at least now he wasn't going to show up empty-handed like a dumbass.

"'M leaving now!" he called after her, and from deeper inside the apartment, Lisa's cheerful 'Good luck!' followed him out the door.

He tucked the bouquet into his elbow as he stepped outside, moving on autopilot. Into the elevator. Up a floor. Out into the fresh air and across the small parking lot. He climbed into his truck, setting the flowers gently on the passenger seat before starting the engine and pulling out onto the road.

Music blasted through the speakers, rattling in his chest. It helped — kind of. At least it was doing something to drown out the nerves buzzing in his stomach. It was so stupid. His body didn't seem to know the difference between going to pick up his crush for prom and staring down the demon.

Pulling into her driveway, he turned the volume down and let the truck idle, fingers drumming against the wheel.

Alright. He could do this.

He'd talked to ghosts. He'd faced down Red Eyes. He'd learned their teacher had been feeding them people. He'd walked through the abandoned, skeleton-filled cult temple under the apartments.

He could pick up the cutest, prettiest girl in his life for prom.

Easy peasy.

Echoing those words over and over in his mind, Larry grabbed the flowers, popped open the truck door, turned off the engine, and hopped out. He shut it behind him, making his way up her porch steps, past her flower beds, and onto the welcome mat.

For a split second, it felt like his heart was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He raised his hand.

Knock knock.

And then he waited.

As the seconds stretched, his brain scrambled for something normal to do with himself, landing on what guys always did in movies. Before he could overthink it, he slid the bouquet behind his back, hiding it from sight.

It's a good thing he did, because a few seconds later, the door opened.

And then Penguin stood there, framed in the doorway, and holy shit.

The dress hugged her in all the right ways, fitted at the top before flowing freely down to her ankles like it was made just for her. The color — God, the color — looked so good on her, like it had been plucked straight from his daydreams. Thin straps rested on her shoulders, leaving her collarbones bare, leading down to a neckline that was… straight? Square? He didn't know the name for it, but it didn't matter. Not when she looked like that.

His eyes caught the choker she wore, black and snug around her throat, with a tiny silver crescent moon hanging from the center. It was simple, but it fit her so well it almost made his chest ache. And then his gaze drifted higher, to the matching earrings swaying gently with her every movement. The same little silver moons from the first time they met, catching the light just right, framing her face in a way that made it even harder to look away.

How the hell was he supposed to survive the night when she looked like this?

They stood there, staring at each other, and— yeah, she was definitely looking him over the same way he was looking at her. That realization made his ears go hot.

The first word to leave his mouth was a breathy, "Hi."

"Hey," she breathed right back. Then she flushed, letting go of the doorframe to smooth down invisible wrinkles in her dress. "You're early… I'm, uh, I'm not done yet."

"Oh. Sorry," he apologized, laughing quietly as he shifted on his feet. He picked at the edge of the bouquet behind his back, glancing toward the driveway. "Want me to wait outside?"

She huffed at him, looking incredibly offended at the thought. "If you're here, you're a guest. Get your ass inside."

Then she stepped back, giving him space to walk in.

Stepping inside after her, he figured now was as good a time as any. So, just as she leaned over to close the door behind him, he brought out the bouquet.

"Think of it as a sorry, for getting here so early," he said, watching as her eyes widened.

She blinked at it in surprise, her brows lifting. For a second, she just stared, her hands twitching slightly like she wasn't sure if she should take it. He gave the bouquet a little playful shake, silently urging her, and she let out a soft, amused noise before reaching for it carefully.

The way she handled it — gentle, almost reverent — made something warm settle deep in his chest. He swallowed as she brushed her fingers lightly along the blooms, tracing the petals with the same careful touch he'd seen her use on her drawings. Then she brought the flowers up to her nose, sniffing lightly, and god, the look on her face.

Awe. Pure, quiet awe.

And then she looked up at him, half-hidden behind the bouquet, but her grin was unmistakable. Bright. Warm. Almost shy.

Something about it made his heart stutter. He barely had time to process it before she ducked her head slightly, her fingers curling against the paper wrapping as she swayed just a little on her feet.

A soft giggle spilled past her lips, and fuck, he was so screwed.

"Thank you," she murmured, voice small and giddy.

He had to clear his throat before he could even think about responding, struggling to get his brain back in order. Right. They were supposed to be going somewhere.

"Uh—" His voice cracked a little, so he cleared his throat again. "Maybe you should — y'know — finish getting ready. So we can go."

Penguin blinked up at him before her expression shifted into realization. "Oh, duh. Yeah, c'mon." She shifted on her heel, gesturing for him to follow.

He hesitated, glancing down at his boots. "Uh— should I—"

She must've caught his pause because she glanced back at him. "Don't worry about it for now. It's not like you'll be stomping all over the place. Just follow me, boots and all, just this once."

Relieved, he nodded, taking a step forward just as she turned back around—

And he almost tripped over himself.

Because holy fuck.

Her dress was backless.

Thin straps crossed between her shoulders, connecting at the sides, but other than that? Nothing.

His mouth went dry.

Up until now, he'd only ever seen her in jeans and t-shirts, hoodies, maybe the occasional tank top. At most, he'd seen her arms. But this — this was a whole new thing.

His eyes snapped straight to the dip of her spine, completely without his permission, and he barely stopped himself from making an audible noise. The way her back shifted with every step — the subtle pull of muscle under smooth skin — and he suddenly understood how Victorian men felt about ankles.

A weird mix of panic and something warmer flared in his chest. He needed to look away. He should look away. But he really, really didn't want to.

He followed her into the kitchen completely thoughtlessly, moving on autopilot as she set the bouquet down on the counter and started searching for a vase.

And he should've stopped watching then. He really should have.

But then she was reaching up toward the top cabinets, the smooth skin of her back stretching as she rose onto her toes. Then she was kneeling down, shifting her weight as she hunched over to dig through the lower cabinets, her back curving—

He needed to get a grip.

It felt wrong to stare like this, disrespectful, but he couldn't seem to look away. His brain wasn't working, his body wasn't listening. How was he just now realizing backs were attractive?

Thankfully, all that unwilling attention paid off — because when she let out a triumphant noise and rocked back onto her heels, standing up too fast, she nearly lost her balance.

His hands moved before he could think.

One settled against the smooth skin of her back. The other found her arm.

She shivered. It was subtle — just a small quiver against his palm — but he felt it. And then she grinned up at him, eyes shining with something warm, and let out a little laugh as she steadied herself.

"Thanks," she said, her voice light.

He barely managed a nod before she slipped from his hold, moving to fill the vase with water.

Desperate for something to do, anything to keep his hands from hovering uselessly, he busied himself with peeling the paper wrapping from the bouquet. It was still too much when she stood so close to him, but at least it kept his fingers occupied.

When she finished filling the vase, they worked together to tuck the flowers inside, his hands brushing against hers more than once. Every time, he swore he felt something electric spark at the touch.

And then when they were done, she beamed up at him, practically glowing with delight as she took the vase from his hands.

If he had any thoughts left in his head, they had just melted completely.

She frowned slightly, her smile dimming as she tilted her head at him. "You okay?"

He blinked, realizing too late how uncharacteristically silent he'd been. He was always saying something, cracking a joke, throwing out a dumb pun, or just running his mouth because he hated dead air. "Yeah," he rushed out, shuffling his feet. "Yeah, I'm good."

Her brows pinched, like she wasn't quite convinced.

He swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck before forcing himself to just say it. "You just—" He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You look really pretty."

It wasn't just the dress. She wasn't wearing makeup, wasn't dolled up like the girls who spent hours in front of the mirror before a big event. It was just her, just Penguin, standing there with that usual easy smile and that excited little glint in her eyes. That alone had the butterflies in his stomach circling like crazy.

She blinked at him, like the words took a second to sink in, and then—

Oh.

Oh, shit.

The grin that exploded on her face was devastating. Bright, unrestrained, so completely her. She ducked her head almost immediately, hiding half her face behind the flowers like they might shield her from his words. But he still caught the way her shoulders curled in, the little wiggle in her stance that betrayed how giddy she was.

And Larry — he swore his heart actually ached.

Because if a simple compliment could make her light up like that, if something he said could make her that happy, then there was nothing else in the world he could ever want. No high, no thrill, no adventure could ever compete with this.

She peeked up at him over the blooms, her eyes practically glowing, and something deep in him clenched tight.

She opened her mouth once, then twice, like she was trying to find words that didn't want to come out. A little huff left her as she glanced down at the flowers, then back up at him, before she suddenly stomped her foot against the floor with an annoyed groan. She scrunched her nose like the words physically fought against her. Then she blurted out, "You look good, too."

Larry barely had a second to process the rush of warmth that shot through his chest before she made a strangled noise and bailed. She turned on her heel and speed-walked toward her room, cradling the vase like it was her ticket to escaping the conversation.

It took a second for his brain to catch up before he sputtered out a laugh. "Wait—" He followed after her, his own face burning as he tried to push past it with humor. "Damn, no need to run! You act like I'm about to laugh at you or somethin'—"

"Don't talk to me!" she whined dramatically, shoulders scrunching up as she picked up her pace.

"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that—"

She twisted her body just enough to throw a glare at him, but it had no real heat to it. It was all puffed-up cheeks and pouting lips, like she was trying to act mad instead of just flustered out of her mind. He grinned, reaching out to snag at her waist, but she let out an exaggerated eep! and twisted away before he could grab her.

They stumbled into her room like that, her dodging and him failing to grab hold of her, both of them red-faced and grinning like idiots.

With a breathless laugh, he gave up the chase and dropped heavily onto her bed, letting himself sprawl out on his back. His heart was still hammering — half from the chase, half from her — but he ignored it, watching as she stuck her tongue out at him in victory.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Real mature."

She just grinned, still giggling as she set the vase down on her nightstand. Then, grabbing her socks and converse, she plopped down onto the bed beside him.

And once again, he had the lovely view of her back as she bent forward, tugging her socks on.

God. He felt like a damn preteen again.

His fingers twitched where they rested on his stomach, a ridiculous temptation creeping up on him before he shoved it down. He tore his eyes away, looking up at the ceiling instead, letting out a slow breath through his nose.

The rest of the time passed in an easy silence, just the soft sounds of her moving around her room, finishing up whatever little details she needed. He watched her flit from one thing to the next, fiddling with her hair, tugging off her glasses to swipe mascara onto her lashes, smoothing on a light layer of lip gloss on her pretty lips.

Then, she grabbed a small bottle from her dresser and gave herself a quick spritz of something, the fine mist settling over her skin. The scent hit him almost immediately — warm, a little sweet, but not overwhelmingly feminine. Just… nice. Comforting, even. He barely even thought about it before reaching out a hand toward her, palm up in an unspoken request.

She didn't hesitate, pressing the bottle into his hand as she moved past him. He gave himself a small spritz on his neck, rubbing it into his wrists, and the scent clung to him, subtle but lingering. It wasn't his, but it didn't feel not like him either.

It'd do.

Something about it felt domestic in a way that made his stomach flutter. If it were a normal evening, he'd probably be half-asleep next to her by now, or rambling about some stupid horror movie at her as she tried to keep up.

But it wasn't a normal evening.

She slipped on a simple jacket, and it almost felt like a relief. No more exposed back, no more distractions. Just Penguin, ready to go.

And with that, it was time.