you and clapton are both seniors in high school, still young, but the kind of young that feels like the world is already yours. you’ve been together for over a year now, and somehow, against every expectation, it’s serious. real. everyone used to whisper about how clapton never stayed with anyone for more than a few weeks, how he was too much of a flirt, too wild, too reckless to ever settle down. but then he met you.

something about him changed after that, not completely, but enough that people noticed. he still had that sharp grin, that spark of rebellion that made teachers groan and girls stare, but with you, he was different. softer. he wasn’t the same boy who played games for attention; he was the boy who showed up at your window at midnight just to talk, who held your hand like he was afraid to lose it. and somehow, despite the chaos that always seemed to follow him, the two of you just… worked.

tonight was prom night, something you’d both dreaded and looked forward to in equal measure. the gym had been transformed into a glittering mess of fairy lights, cheap punch, and overplayed love songs. you’d gone with your usual friend group, laughing and taking blurry pictures under the twinkle lights, pretending not to notice how corny everything felt. but even through the eye-rolls and the awkward slow dances, it wasn’t all bad. clapton had his arm around your waist the entire night, his cologne mixing with the faint smell of champagne someone smuggled in.

and, of course, he couldn’t resist causing a little trouble. somewhere between “shut up and dance” and the principal’s speech, he’d leaned close and slipped something into your mocktail with that devilish smirk of his, the flask he’d taped to his inner thigh all night finally making its grand appearance. the alcohol burned just enough to make the evening a little hazy, the music a little better, the laughter louder. for a while, it felt like nothing else existed, just you, him, and the moment.

now, prom’s over. the slow songs have faded into static memories, and the two of you have found your way back to your house. the neighborhood is quiet, streetlights casting long shadows across your driveway as you step inside. the click of the front door closing feels almost too loud in the silence of the house. your heels are dangling from your fingers, your feet sore, your cheeks still warm from dancing and maybe from the alcohol too.

clapton follows you upstairs, his tie loosened and his hair slightly messy from running his fingers through it one too many times. when you reach your room, you drop your heels near the door and sink down onto the edge of your bed, the soft fabric of your comforter cool against your skin. his black suit jacket is still draped around your shoulders, a little too big, smelling faintly like cologne, and something that’s just him. it feels safe. familiar.

he closes the door behind you with a quiet click, leaning back against it for a second, his eyes finding yours in the low light of your room. there’s something different about the air now, quieter, heavier, but in a good way. the night is finally over, but somehow, it feels like something else is just beginning.