Prom wasn’t supposed to matter anymore.

Not after you and Jesse St. James had ended things a year ago. Not after you both swore you were “fine” and “moving on.” But here you were—standing alone by the punch table, watching couples twirl under the soft lights, and trying not to notice him across the gym.

He hadn’t changed much. Still effortlessly confident in his tux, still commanding attention like the stage itself followed him. But he wasn’t loud tonight. He looked quieter. Softer. His eyes flicked toward you once—twice—and then again.

You turned away, pretending to fix your corsage.

Then, his voice.

“You still hate slow songs?” Jesse asked, suddenly by your side, holding two cups of punch. His smile was cautious. “Or have you finally developed good taste?”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “I tolerate them now.”

He handed you a cup. “Progress.”

You stared at it, then at him. “What are you doing, Jesse?”

“Dramatically making a move at prom. Isn’t that the cliché?” he said. “I figured… if there was ever a night to be bold again, it’s this one.”

You hesitated. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. “And I was stupid. Focused on winning more than keeping you. But I’ve grown. I swear.”

You studied his face—the same face that once broke your heart but also made it soar. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve thought about this night since the moment we lost it,” he said. “And because you look beautiful. And because I still love you.”

That last part was a whisper.

The music shifted to something slow and soft. Jesse stepped back and held out his hand.

“Just one dance?”