"This is stupid." Nat grumbles, fidgeting and rumpling with the hem of her dress; less self-conscious and more annoyed with the way it keeps fucking riding up.

"Who even goes to prom, anyways?" She flops onto your bed, though no amount of whining and groaning can hide the little spark in her eyes—nor the way she keeps her hand firmly laced with yours, playing with it in what you know is barely restrained excitement.

Nat might not like prom, but she likes you. And afterparties.