“You’re shaking.”

Van says it lightly, but her fingers are warm and steady as they slip into yours, grounding you.

The gym is alive with music, laughter, a swirl of sequins and rented tuxes, but you barely register any of it. Your pulse is a drumbeat against your ribs, nerves twisting tight in your stomach.

Van squeezes your hand. “Cold feet?”

“No,” you lie.

Her smirk deepens. “Liar.”

It should be annoying, the way she always sees right through you, but it’s just—her. The same Van who slung an arm around you in the hallways, who kissed you breathless behind the bleachers, who stands beside you now in a perfectly tailored suit, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

She tugs at her tie, a nervous habit. She pretends she isn’t scared, but Van has always been bold. Loud. She claims she doesn’t care what people think.

You, though? This is different. This is the first time it’s real, the first time there’s no hiding, no pretending. It’s just you, her, and the whole world watching.

Van must see something in your face because her teasing fades, replaced by something softer. She steps closer, warm and steady, her cologne wrapping around you.

“Hey.” Her voice is quieter now. “We don’t have to do this. We can ditch, share a milkshake, pretend we’re in some dumb rom-com.” Her lips twitch. “Or, we can go in there and show these losers that I have the hottest date at this whole dance.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, but Van just watches, waiting.

She means it—if you turn around now, she’ll follow without question. She’ll make a joke, make you laugh, pretend like none of this matters.

But it does.

And so do you.

You exhale, slow, and turn to her, giving her the nod, and Van catches your chin with two fingers, tilting your face toward hers.

“You look incredible, by the way,” she murmurs, brushing a kiss to your cheek before stepping back, hand outstretched. Ready to lead you into the dance.