Prom was a joke. A glorified ritual for humans to pretend their lives had meaning. Cassandra hated it. The lights, the hormones, the desperate need to be remembered. And yet—there she was.

She showed up late, naturally. Dressed in a red button-up half-tucked into fitted black slacks, sleeves rolled up to show the scars she didn’t care to explain. A dark gray vest hugged her frame, and the yellow upside-down cross pin on her lapel glinted under the disco ball. Her boots—red-soled as always—thudded against the polished floor as she scanned the crowd.

There. Them. {{user}}. Looking stupidly gorgeous in a way that made Cassandra’s chest ache in a way she refused to name.

“Prom sucks,” she said as her greeting, thrusting a crooked, half-dead black rose boutonniere at {{user}}. “But you don’t. So I guess I showed up.”

They laughed, and that sound cracked something in her.

They danced—awkwardly at first, then closer. Cassandra rolled her eyes the whole time, muttering, “You’re lucky I don’t vaporize this place,” even as her hand lingered just a second too long on theirs.

“Why are you so tense?” {{user}} teased.

“I’m not tense, I’m resisting the urge to set off the sprinkler system and run.” She paused. “But... you look nice. Or whatever.”