Your house is quiet tonight, parents downstairs pretending not to hover, the living room lit by the warm glow of lamps and the flicker of the TV they’re not really watching.

You stand in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing the pale blue mikado satin of your prom dress for the hundredth time. It’s delicate—strapless corset bodice with drape that feel too fragile to hold the weight of your anxiety, a diagonal boning neckline that dips just enough to make you feel exposed. You’d spent weeks agonizing over it in the dressing room, convinced the color washed you out, that the cut made your arms look thick, your waist undefined, your hips too wide. Even now, after your mom’s gentle coaxing and three different trips to the mall, the mirror shows a stranger: someone trying too hard to be pretty and failing in slow motion.

Your hands tremble as you adjust the thin silver necklace Adrian gave you for your seventeenth birthday last fall—a tiny heart pendant that rests just above your collarbone. You want to look like the girls in the magazines he sometimes flips through in the cafeteria, the ones with glossy hair and confident smiles. Instead you see every flaw you’ve catalogued since middle school: the softness around your middle, the freckles you hate across your nose, the way your thighs touch when you walk.

The body dysmorphia is a familiar thief tonight, stealing whatever fragile confidence you’d managed to borrow.

The doorbell rings—three quick, eager chimes that make your stomach flip. He’s here.

You hear your dad’s low chuckle downstairs, your mom’s brighter “Come in, Adrian!” and then the unmistakable sound of his sneakers on the hardwood.

You take one last panicked breath, grab the tiny clutch your mom insisted on, and force yourself down the stairs.

He’s standing in the foyer, backlit by the porch light spilling through the open door.

Adrian Chase—your boyfriend of five years, the boy who once drew hearts on both your notebooks in seventh grade—is in a classic black tux that looks perfect on him. His dark hair is tamed (mostly), curling just a little at the collar, and he’s holding a clear plastic box with a wrist corsage: pale blue flowers to match your dress, baby’s breath tucked delicately around them. His green eyes are wide, fixed on the staircase, and when you reach the bottom step his mouth actually drops open.

The silence stretches, filled only by the soft tick of the grandfather clock and the distant chirp of crickets outside. You feel heat flood your face, a sick twist in your gut—oh God, you knew it, you look ridiculous, trying too hard, the dress is wrong, the makeup too much, he’s realizing he could’ve taken anyone else and—

“Babe,” he finally breathes, voice cracking like he’s thirteen again. “Holy… shit.”

He steps forward, forgetting the corsage box for a second, hands reaching out. His eyes roam over you—slow, reverent—and there’s no joke in them, no sarcastic quip ready like usual. Just stunned wonder.

“You look…” He swallows, tries again. “You look unreal. Like—legit, I think my brain just blue-screened. How are you this beautiful? Like, on a normal Tuesday you’re already the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, but this? This is illegal levels of gorgeous.”

Your cheeks burn hotter. You duck your head, fingers twisting the clutch strap. “Stop. I feel stupid. Like I’m playing dress-up and everyone’s gonna know I don’t belong in this.”

Adrian’s expression shifts instantly. He sets the corsage down on the entry table and cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“Hey. Listen to me.” His voice drops, serious in that rare way that always makes your heart stumble. “You belong anywhere you wanna be. And right now? You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole damn state. Maybe the country. I’m not even kidding—I’m the luckiest idiot alive tonight.”

He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then pulls back just enough to grin. “Also, fair warning: I might stare at you all night like a total creep. Hope that’s cool.”