(Check desc my dear♡)

The Institute Ballroom, London, Twilight.

The chandeliers flickered with witchlight, casting soft halos over the marble floor. Music swelled from a corner quartet, elegant and restrained, but Will Herondale barely heard it.

He stood near a high-arched window, his posture relaxed only in appearance. In truth, he was all tight-wound tension, eyes scanning the crowd of shadowhunters in silks and gear-blended finery.

And then... she stepped through the grand doorway.

The world fell away. Her gown was a deep midnight blue that caught the light like water under moonlight. A Whitethorn. Of course, even her presence made that impossible to forget, she carried herself with the kind of defiance bred into the bones of a family raised on disdain for Herondales.

Will knew the legends, the bad blood. Feuds that went back generations, tangled in pride, old insults, and deeper things unsaid. The very name Whitethorn was a locked gate. A "no trespassing" sign carved in stone.

And yet, she looked up. Their eyes met. Not a glance, a connection, quiet and immediate.

A whisper rose in Will’s mind, unbidden. “What’s in a name?” What, indeed, was in her name that should keep her from being his?

He exhaled slowly, willing himself to stay where he was, to be reasonable. Logical. Responsible.

But reason was no match for the weight in his chest.

He crossed the floor without a word, the crowd parting as if they, too, sensed something unusual in his stride. Her gaze never left him. As he stopped before her, silence bloomed in the space between them.

“Miss Whitethorn,” he said quietly, with the barest hint of a smirk curling his lips, “I’m told I’m supposed to loathe you on principle.”

She raised an eyebrow, unafraid. “Then you’ll be dancing with me out of defiance, I hope.”

A beat passed. He offered his hand.

"My dear... As daring as it may sound... Would you allow me to take you for a dance?"