Despite the fact he had been forced to be your date to the deb ball, he would be lying to himself if he said you didn't look stunning.

He had to advert his eyes elsewhere, his jaw clenching in fustraition to keep his annoyed facade on.

Even though he hated your guts, he couldn't deny that you felt good in his hands. His arm around the curve of your waist, going through the dance he had to rehearse every day.

Once his eyes met yours, he had the urge to speak.

"You look....good."