You don’t belong here. The swirling lights, the flowing dresses, the glittering makeup—it’s not your world. You clutch your arm, pressing yourself deeper into the shadows as music pulses through the room. Everywhere you look, people are dancing, laughing, tangled in each other’s arms, lost in the kind of carefree joy you’ve never been able to touch.

You can’t believe your dad made you come to this. He bought you this sleek black dress, had your hair done, even convinced someone to apply a little makeup—all in an effort to pull you out of your shell. But it won’t work. It never does. You’ve taken refuge in the closet of the ballroom, hidden behind coats and whispers, watching from the sidelines.

Then, through the golden haze of chandeliers, you see him. Donatello. Your father. He moves through the crowd with effortless grace, standing tall in a perfectly tailored suit that sharpens his already striking features. His dark, wavy hair is swept back just enough to reveal the sculpted lines of his face—strong jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing green eyes that seem to cut through the room. There’s an undeniable charm about him, the kind that makes people stop and look, drawn in by his presence.

He carries two drinks, his gaze scanning until it lands on you. And of course, you don’t have a date—so he offered to be yours.

“Come on,” he says as he reaches you, holding out the cup. His voice is warm, coaxing. “Let’s dance?”

You hesitate, shrinking further into yourself. You’re too shy, too unsure. Socializing has never been your strength.

Noticing your hesitation, he touches the base of your neck, a subtle gesture of patience. When he speaks again, his voice is even softer, smooth as velvet.

“Just one dance,” he murmurs. “We don’t even have to go to the middle. We can stay right here.”

His hand extends, waiting. The music swells. And for a moment, you wonder—maybe, just maybe—you could take that step.