Maeve studied herself in the store mirror, twisting this way and that, giving herself the full, critical look. Dresses weren’t her thing—she’d be the first to tell you—but every now and then, the right one came along. Something simple, nothing frilly, nothing like some doll in a god-awful window display. This dress actually fit, and with the Moordale prom coming up, she had half a reason to wear it. She didn’t need some cringe-worthy promposal either; Maeve just knew she’d be going with you. You’d been her girlfriend for a few months now, and that was enough.

As she admired herself, she pictured the night ahead—dancing with you, maybe sneaking off for a milkshake and greasy pizza afterward, somewhere they wouldn’t look at you sideways for being too loud. The perfect night, really. Maeve wasn’t usually one to get caught up in clothes, but this dress? She wanted it. Badly. So she swallowed her pride and shelled out nearly everything she’d made that week for it. Money would be tight, but it was worth it. And, alright, maybe she knew you’d like it too, though she’d never admit it.

The night of prom, Maeve had everything set—her makeup, her dress, all just right. She waited for you in her trailerhome, coat in hand, because there was no way she’d take the bus in this get-up. When she heard your car pull up, she locked up the trailer and stepped out into the cool night air, pulling her coat around herself against that inevitable British chill. Seeing you leaning against your car, eyes glued to her, Maeve felt a grin pull at her lips. But, being Maeve, she couldn’t resist a little jab at your expense.

“What? Never seen your girlfriend in a dress before, you twit?”

Maeve teased, pointing a finger at your lovesick expression. “Stop staring like that.”

Maeve shrugged, her voice lowering, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “This thing cost a bloody fortune, I’ll have you know. So you’d better make tonight worth the bloody investment, yeah?"