Vanessa stood in front of Ethan's house, her arms crossed tight against her chest, as if she could somehow contain the storm brewing inside her. She shifted from foot to foot, each second stretching longer than the last, the weight of the silence behind the door pressing harder into her ribs.
She rang the doorbell.
Once.
Twice.
Part of her expected nothing to happen. Part of her hoped for it—because if he didn't answer, then maybe she wouldn't have to look him in the eye and feel that sharp twist of something she didn't quite want to name.
But the door opened almost instantly.
Ethan stood there, barefoot and tousled, in a loose blue shirt that clung slightly to his frame and a pair of black shorts that hit just above his knees. His white hair was messy, curling faintly at the ends in a way that made her fingers twitch with the sudden and wholly inappropriate urge to brush it back.
He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. Or like he hadn't left the house in a day.
There was a subtle haze in his eyes. Not sleep exactly. Something quieter. Quieter and heavier.
Before Vanessa could even open her mouth, movement flickered at his side.
Ares padded into view, tall and silent, his golden eyes watching her with that unsettling stillness he always had. Alert. Protective. As if he were assessing whether she was friend or threat.
Fenrir popped out next, weaving between Ethan's legs and giving a happy little tail wag like the sweet idiot he was. Nyx, in true Nyx fashion, merely dragged herself over behind the others, yawned like the world was exhausting, and flopped dramatically across the tile in the entryway.
Ethan blinked at her. "Vanessa?... What are you doing here?"
Vanessa raised her chin slightly, trying to stay composed despite the fact that her heartbeat had kicked up the moment she saw his face. His real face—not the carefully calibrated one he wore at school, not the version that only showed emotion when it benefited the game.
This was something else. Something raw.
"You weren't at school," she said, trying to keep her voice even.
Ethan leaned one shoulder against the doorway, his expression unreadable. "And?"
Vanessa felt her spine stiffen. Really? That's how he was playing it?
"And that's not normal," she snapped.
He arched a brow, slow and dry. "Didn't know I had a perfect attendance record."
She rolled her eyes, but the tension didn't ease. It knotted tighter instead. "You don't. But you also don't just disappear without saying anything." Her gaze slid down his form—barefoot, wrinkled clothes, hair like he hadn't touched it all day. "You sick?"
Ethan exhaled quietly through his nose. "No. Just didn't feel like going today."
There was something in the way he said it. Flat. Controlled. The kind of answer that wasn't quite a lie, but definitely wasn't the whole truth.
Before she could push, he stepped aside.
"You coming in or what?"
Ares moved first, circling her with the elegance of a soldier on patrol. When he stepped back, she felt the tiniest exhale of tension from Ethan—as if her being allowed to enter had meant something.
Vanessa walked in.
The warmth of the house hit her immediately, wrapping around her shoulders like a blanket she didn't ask for. Rich smells curled into her nose—ginger, garlic, rice, something savory and slow-cooked. It smelled like home. And it made something in her chest ache unexpectedly.
"What is that?" she asked, sniffing.
Before Ethan could respond, Fenrir gave a delighted bark and nuzzled into her side, nearly knocking her off balance. Nyx followed at her own pace, curling herself like a fat shadow near the base of the stairs, her eyes already half-closed. Ares resumed his post near the door.
Ethan shut it behind them. "Lunch," he muttered.
Vanessa turned and caught sight of the kitchen—and paused.
The counter was lined with dishes. Nothing fancy, but everything looked fresh. Homemade. Steam curled up from a ceramic pot, and the smell made her stomach twist with sudden, unwelcome hunger.
"You cooked all that?" she asked, disbelief lacing her voice.
Ethan shrugged like it meant nothing. "Yeah."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
His gaze didn't meet hers. "Felt like it."
He was lying. Or at least, not saying all of it. She knew him well enough to tell the difference.
And yet, despite everything, despite the cloud hanging low over the room, despite the fact that she had no idea what she was walking into, she found herself moving forward, toward the kitchen. The food was arranged neatly—too neatly for someone who was just messing around.
"You made enough for two," she said quietly.
Ethan's mouth curled into something faint. Not quite a smile. "You're here, aren't you?"
Vanessa stared at him. Her heart made that annoying little thud again.
"I dunno... maybe I should leave," she said, folding her arms again. "Wouldn't wanna intrude on your me day."
"Sit down, Vanessa," Ethan said, already moving toward the kitchen.
She sat.
She hated that she did. Hated how easy it was to fall into rhythm with him, like gravity itself bent a little differently when he was near.
He placed a bowl of soup in front of her with practiced calm. She stared at it, then at him, as he sat across from her and began to eat without a word—like this was normal. Like this was their routine.
It felt like a routine.
And that terrified her.
"So..." she began, to mask the way her pulse jumped every time he looked up at her, "the food for two—coincidence, or are you a psychic now?"
Ethan gave her a lazy, unreadable smirk. "Had a feeling."
She scowled. "That's not an answer."
"Sure it is," he replied, taking a slow spoonful. "You were obviously gonna come looking for me."
Vanessa's face flushed so fast it was like heat punched her right through the chest.
"I—shut up," she muttered, stabbing her food.
Ethan chuckled, low and warm. "You're cute when you're flustered."
"I am not."
"You are."
God, why did he always do this?
Why did he make it so hard to stay mad? Why did he always seem so composed, even when she knew he was hurting?
Vanessa shoveled a spoonful into her mouth just to keep from saying something dumb. She hated how good the food was. Hated how good it felt to be here.
And hated that—despite everything—she didn't want to leave.
They ate in silence after that, the tension settling into something strange. Not awkward. Not really. Just thick. Charged. The kind of silence that hummed beneath the skin, waiting.
Vanessa caught herself watching him more than once—his slow, careful movements, the way his eyes flicked to her every now and then like he was checking to make sure she was still real.
And maybe... maybe he was.
Because something had broken open last night.
And the pieces were still here, on the floor between them.
They just hadn't said anything about it yet.
And then—
"So," Ethan said, so casually he might've been commenting on the weather, "wanna go to prom with me?"
Vanessa froze mid-bite, her spoon suspended in the air, a piece of chicken halfway to her mouth.
Her brain... just blanked.
Prom?
Did he just—?
She stared at him, and for one terrifying moment, she wondered if she'd misheard him. Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe she was so far down this confusing spiral of feelings that she was hallucinating things now.
"Huh?" she said, a little too loudly, blinking like he'd just switched to another language mid-sentence.
Ethan, being Ethan, didn't even flinch. He didn't look flustered or second-guess himself, didn't stutter or laugh awkwardly. He just kept eating, completely at ease—as if he hadn't just dropped an emotional grenade in the middle of her chest.
"You know, prom. That thing happening in a few weeks? The one everyone won't shut up about."
Vanessa could only gape at him. "I know what prom is!"
"Great." He finally looked up at her, meeting her eyes with that infuriating calm of his. "So, you in?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. She was short-circuiting. Words refused to line up.
"You—what—why?" she finally managed.
Ethan set his spoon down and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression didn't shift. No smirk. No teasing twinkle in his eye. Just... honesty.
"Because I want to take you," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Obviously."
Her heart did something weird. Not a flutter. Not a skip. It twisted. Like it was trying to fit something too big inside.
She blinked rapidly, trying to reboot her internal systems.
"But you hate school events," she reminded him. It came out flat, like she was trying to ground both of them in reality.
"Yeah," he admitted easily. "But I don't hate you."
Oh, no.
That was so much worse than anything else he could've said.
Because it wasn't some dramatic, over-the-top promposal. There were no balloons, no crowds, no clever signs. It was just him. Sitting across from her in his kitchen, saying exactly what he felt like it wasn't dangerous. Like it wasn't going to melt her insides and scramble her brain and make her want to scream all at once.
Her stomach did a full, reckless backflip.
Unfair, she thought. He's being unfair.
"You sure you're not just asking me because you know no one else will put up with you?" she asked, crossing her arms tightly over her chest to contain the chaos spiraling inside her.
Ethan's lips curved into that annoyingly smug smirk. "Oh, definitely. That's exactly why. You caught me."
The worst part? She could feel the smile tugging at her lips no matter how hard she fought it.
He was joking, but he wasn't. That was the Ethan special—layered meanings wrapped in sarcasm and smirks. And still, even when he was teasing her, it didn't feel empty.
It felt like something.
Still, she couldn't stop feeling... off balance. The way he'd asked—it wasn't elaborate, it wasn't nervous. He hadn't tried to impress her. He didn't even seem to think he needed to. He just wanted her there.
And for reasons she couldn't even begin to unpack, that rattled her more than anything.
She inhaled deeply and let it out in a slow breath, trying to center herself. "Fine."
Ethan quirked a brow. "Fine?"
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "Yes. Fine. I'll go with you."
Ethan nodded like he'd just sealed a business deal. "Good. It'll be fun."
She scoffed. "I doubt that."
"You'll be with me," he said simply. "How could it not be?"
She hated him. She hated how his voice got that low, amused edge when he knew he was winning. She hated how warm her face felt suddenly. She hated that she was grinning around her next bite like some lovesick idiot in a romance novel.
She groaned dramatically and shoved more food into her mouth before she could do something really stupid, like blush again—or worse, smile harder.
Vanessa chewed aggressively, trying to bury the way her thoughts were spiraling.
You'll be with me. How could it not be?
Who says stuff like that with a straight face? Who means it like that?
She swallowed, crossing her arms again like armor. "You really think prom's gonna be fun?"
Ethan shrugged, sipping from his water. "Depends on your definition of fun."
Vanessa eyed him warily. "And what's your definition?"
He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table, his chin balanced on his hand. His eyes were sharp, but the edges of them crinkled with amusement. "Dancing with you. Watching you get all flustered. Maybe pissing off a few people in the process."
Vanessa choked on nothing. "Ethan!"
"What?" His smirk widened. "I'm being honest."
"You can't just—just say things like that!"
"Why not?" he asked, unbothered. "I mean them."
Her brain short-circuited again. Twice in ten minutes. That had to be a new record. She picked up her spoon and pointed it at him, narrowing her eyes.
"You're impossible."
Ethan chuckled softly, like the sound was just for her. "And yet, here you are—agreeing to go to prom with me."
She groaned, dramatically slumping back in her chair, fingers threading through her hair as if physically trying to shake him out of her system. "Regret. I already regret this."
"No, you don't."
She peeked at him through her fingers. "Maybe just a little."
He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
"Okay, fine. But don't expect me to wear anything ridiculous, alright? No big poofy dresses, no glitter, no tiaras. None of that 'princess for a night' crap."
Ethan looked entirely too amused. "What, you don't wanna be a princess?"
"No."
"If you call me 'princess,'" she warned, eyes narrowing, "I will throw my shoe at you."
Ethan chuckled low in his throat. "Duly noted."
But the glint in his eyes said she hadn't heard the last of that joke.
Vanessa sighed and shoved the last of her food into her mouth, pretending that her pulse wasn't doing backflips and her stomach wasn't full of butterflies on caffeine.
Because somehow, this—a quiet kitchen, a casual proposal, a lazy smirk across the table—had unraveled her more than anything ever had.
And deep down, she knew...
She was already in too deep.
They finished their food in relative silence, but Vanessa could still feel the heat on her face. Ethan was acting like this was completely normal, like he hadn't just asked her to prom like it was nothing.
She hated how easily he got under her skin.
It was infuriating—the way Ethan moved through the world like nothing could touch him, like feelings were optional, like she didn't sit there unraveling while he smirked through life.
When lunch was over, he stood with that effortless calm of his, collecting the dishes like it was second nature, like he hadn't just flipped her entire emotional landscape upside down. His movements were smooth, familiar. Too comfortable. And the worst part?
It felt normal.
Like she'd been here a hundred times before, like this was just another day in the rhythm they'd somehow built. But it wasn't. Not after that stupid, casual "Wanna go to prom with me?" Like it didn't matter. Like she didn't matter. Like he didn't know exactly what it would do to her.
So after they sat for a while, talking about everything but prom—because she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered again—she finally made up some excuse and left.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she needed space.
Space to breathe.
To think.
To process.
Which, as it turned out, she wasn't going to get.
Vanessa had barely stepped through the front door when her mother looked up from the couch, a book open in her lap and that familiar all-knowing glint already in her eye.
"You're home early. No Ethan's bike today?"
And just like that, her thoughts shattered all over again.
Vanessa froze, still clinging to the emotional chaos Ethan had left her in. She hadn't even had a full thirty minutes alone to decompress, to unpack the mental mess sitting between her ribs—and now this.
Her mother tilted her head, her voice that dangerous mix of innocent and sharp. "Was yesterday too much for him?"
Vanessa blinked, slowly trying to get her brain to catch up. Yesterday? Too much? What did that even—oh. Right. The whole... parents thing.
She shook her head quickly, rubbing the back of her neck as she tried to pull herself together. "No... I, uh, I came from Ethan's place."
There was a beat of silence. And then—
"Oh?" Her mom's interest sharpened instantly, like a hawk spotting movement. The book was forgotten. Her full attention zeroed in on Vanessa in that way only mothers could manage.
Vanessa instantly regretted every life choice that had led to her opening her mouth. She sighed heavily and dropped onto the couch beside her mother with all the grace of someone walking into their own interrogation.
"It's not what you think."
Her mom hummed, not even pretending to be convinced. "Mmm-hmm."
"Mom," Vanessa groaned, glaring at the ceiling.
Her mom smiled like she was trying very hard not to burst into giddy laughter. "So? What happened?"
Vanessa hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek as she debated how much to say. How real she was willing to be about something she still hadn't even sorted out in her own head.
Finally, she muttered, "He just... somehow knew I was gonna come over."
That got her mother's full attention, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "Knew?"
"Yeah." Vanessa crossed her arms, scowling down at her lap. "He had food for two already made when I got there. Just... waiting."
There it was.
The Look.
The one her mom gave her when she was absolutely delighted and trying to pretend she wasn't.
"Oh. Oh, that's adorable."
Vanessa turned on her instantly. "It's weird!"
Her mom burst into a laugh that felt way too smug. "No, sweetheart. That's a man who pays attention."
Vanessa slumped back into the couch, dragging her hands over her face like she could physically peel the embarrassment off her skin. "You are literally the worst person to talk to about this."
"You say that," her mom said, grinning, "yet here you are."
"Because you don't let me leave when I try."
Her mother chuckled, patting her leg. "Fair point. But seriously, what's the problem? He knows you well enough to anticipate you."
"It's creepy!"
"It's romantic."
"It's weird."
"It's cute."
Vanessa let out a sound of pure frustration, like her body didn't know whether to scream or melt into the floor. Her mom, undeterred, just patted her knee knowingly, clearly enjoying every second of this.
And then, with all the subtlety of a trapdoor snapping open beneath her, her mother casually asked, "So... did he ask you to prom yet?"
Vanessa went rigid.
It was like all the air left the room. Like she'd been sucker-punched by the question alone.
Her mother's smile widened like she'd known.
"Ah. So he did."
Vanessa groaned and slumped so low in the couch she was practically part of it. "Why do you know everything?!"
Her mom beamed, smug as ever. "Because I'm your mother, sweetheart. Now, tell me—how did he ask?"
Vanessa glared up at the ceiling like it might swallow her. "Over lunch. Like it was no big deal. Just 'Hey, wanna go to prom?' Like he was asking me to pass the salt."
Her mom let out a dreamy sigh. "Ah, young love."
"Mom!"
But she wasn't listening. Her smile had gone all soft, her eyes a little too bright with affection. "And what did you say?"
Vanessa mumbled something into her sleeve.
Her mom nudged her. "Come on, sweetheart. What did you say?"
Vanessa crossed her arms tightly and muttered, "I said yes."
"Of course you did."
Vanessa shot her a look. "Don't say it like that."
Her mother just reached over and patted her head. "Sweetheart, you do realize you've basically found yourself a husband before college, right?"
Vanessa nearly choked. "WHAT?!"
Her mom smirked, clearly having the time of her life. "I'm just saying—he dotes on you, knows you better than you know yourself, and flusters you more than anyone else ever has. That's a solid start."
Vanessa was on her feet in a flash, almost knocking over the coffee table in the process. "I—WE—It's not like that!"
Her mom's laughter followed her all the way to the stairs.
Vanessa stormed to her room, slamming the door shut behind her like it might trap the chaos outside. But it didn't.
The words chased her down like ghosts.
"You've basically found yourself a husband."
"He dotes on you."
"Knows you better than you know yourself."
"That's a solid start."
She sat on her bed, arms crossed tight, jaw clenched, heart pounding. Her face burned with a thousand emotions she didn't want to name. She grabbed a pillow and slammed it over her head, groaning into it like it could block the thoughts.
It wasn't like that.
It wasn't.
...Right?
Ethan was impossible. Smug. Infuriating. Unflappable. He said things that made her chest do wild, traitorous things and never once looked fazed.
And still—
Still, the moment he'd said those words—"Wanna go to prom with me?"—her heart had jumped like it had been waiting years to hear it.
No stuttering. No awkward lead-in. Just Ethan. Calm, collected, stupidly confident Ethan.
And her? She'd been a mess. Stammering. Caught off guard. Like she hadn't seen it coming—even when, deep down, maybe some part of her had.
Vanessa grabbed the pillow and hurled it across the room, watching it bounce off her desk and flop onto the floor like a defeated soldier.
She hated him.
She hated that he knew her.
She hated that he saw right through her, even when she didn't know what she was feeling.
She hated that her mother had seen it too.
And maybe—just maybe—she hated that a small, quiet part of her was already wondering what it would feel like to dance with him. To walk into prom next to Ethan and see what it looked like—them, in public, like a thing that made sense.
Her bedroom door creaked open with the soft groan of old hinges, the sound slicing through the heavy silence like a warning bell.
Vanessa didn't even bother looking up. She was curled in the middle of her bed like a storm cloud, arms crossed, lips tight, soul worn thin. She barely had the energy to exist, let alone deal with this.
"No," she said flatly, voice muffled into her blanket. "Just... no."
But of course, her mother had never been good at taking no for an answer.
"Just checking in on my little future bride—"
A pillow launched through the air like a heat-seeking missile. It sailed across the room with a satisfying whump, but her mother—agile and smug—dodged it with ease, laughing like this was all a game.
"You're so easy to tease, sweetheart," she said, absolutely delighted with herself.
Vanessa finally lifted her head, her scowl sharp enough to cut diamonds. "I hate you."
Her mother only smiled, the kind of smile that said no you don't and we both know it.
"You love me. Now, let's talk dresses."
Vanessa blinked. The words didn't quite register at first—like her brain had stalled out from pure exhaustion.
"...What."
Her mother was already striding across the room like she owned the place (which, okay, technically she did), and sat herself on the edge of Vanessa's bed like this was some sort of mission briefing.
"Prom, honey," she said cheerfully. "You have a date now, so we need to find you something that'll make his little smug confidence disappear."
That stopped Vanessa cold.
Just—froze her.
The idea hit her like a slow-burning fuse: Ethan. Speechless. Knocked off balance. Not in control for once.
God, the mere thought of seeing his cool, cocky little smirk falter just for a second—
That he might look at her and actually forget how to speak—
Yes.
Yes.
Her mother's eyes lit up the second Vanessa's expression shifted. "Ah. There it is. That scheming look. I know that look. That's a 'make him regret ever thinking he had the upper hand' look."
Vanessa's lips curled, slow and deliberate, into a dangerous smirk. "If I'm going, I'm making damn sure he notices."
Her mother clapped her hands together with glee. "That's my girl."
Vanessa didn't want to admit it, but her pulse had quickened a little at the thought.
Not of the dress.
Not of prom.
But of him seeing her. Really seeing her. And not being able to hide how much it shook him.
She wanted to ruin him—just a little.
In a dress that made his mouth go dry.
In heels that made her look like she belonged on a throne.
In something that would finally, finally wipe that self-satisfied look off his stupidly handsome face.
The next few days blurred together in a flurry of fabric, zippers, and fluorescent dressing room lights.
Vanessa burst into the house after her shift one night, slamming the door behind her like it had personally offended her. Her shoes came off halfway down the hall, her jacket flung somewhere in the direction of the staircase, and she stomped into the kitchen with the grace of a hurricane.
She was done.
Tired. Frustrated. Emotionally wrung out. She wanted to crawl into bed and disappear for a month.
"Bad day?" her mother asked casually from behind the counter, not even looking up from her tea.
"Worse," Vanessa muttered. She ran both hands through her hair, then let them flop down uselessly at her sides. "I am officially throwing in the towel on this whole stupid dress hunt."
Her mother raised an eyebrow, sipping her tea like this wasn't a total emergency. "That bad?"
"Every single one I tried today was either too frilly, too tight, too boring, or just made me look like a damn cupcake."
"Cupcakes are cute."
"I don't want to be cute!" Vanessa practically shouted. "I want to be lethal!"
Her mom finally looked up at that, amused. "You want to intimidate your prom date?"
"No," Vanessa muttered, pacing now, her words spilling out in rapid-fire frustration. "I want him to look at me and forget how to breathe. I want his stupid smug face to crack for once. I want him to panic a little. Is that so much to ask?"
Her mother chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "You're in love with that boy."
Vanessa spun around, scandalized. "I am not!"
"Mmm-hmm."
"I just—he's always so damn unshakable." Vanessa threw her hands in the air. "It's like nothing gets to him. I need one win. Just one moment where he looks at me and can't find something snarky to say."
"You want to stun him."
Vanessa crossed her arms, breathing hard. "Exactly."
Her mother tilted her head, a thoughtful smile playing on her lips. "Then we haven't found the dress yet. But we will."
Vanessa's shoulders sagged. "Prom is next week. I'm screwed."
Her mother came over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not screwed. You're just... sharpening your sword."
Vanessa blinked. "That's dramatic."
"That's accurate," her mom replied with a wink, still wearing that maddeningly smug look of someone two steps ahead.
Vanessa didn't even bother to respond—just groaned, dragged her tired body down the hall, with a sigh that carried the weight of an emotional war.
She had barely made it three steps towards the stairs the house when her mother called out from the living room.
"Vanessa!"
Her name echoed like an ambush, and she instinctively tensed.
"What?" she called back, dragging her feet as she made her way in, not even trying to hide her irritation.
Her mom was perched on the edge of the couch, casual as ever—but Vanessa's eyes were instantly drawn to the box sitting on the coffee table. Medium-sized. Plain. Brown. The kind of box that didn't announce itself... except for the way her name was written across the top.
Neatly. Deliberately. Not typed. Handwritten.
She blinked. "What's this?"
Her mother's smirk deepened, and that was never a good sign. "Why don't you open it and find out?"
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. Her gut told her to walk away. That look on her mom's face was dangerous. That was the I-know-something-you-don't look. That was the trap-has-already-been-set look.
And yet... curiosity was a stubborn, traitorous thing.
With a soft grunt, she reached for the box, fingers working through the tape until the top peeled open—and the second she saw what was inside, her breath caught.
Deep, shimmering emerald.
Her heart stuttered in her chest.
Not just green. His green.
She didn't even need to lift the fabric to know the exact shade. The same impossible, piercing green that stared her down every time Ethan looked at her with that infuriating, unreadable face.
His eyes.
That color.
This dress.
She reached in slowly, as if afraid it might disappear if she touched it wrong.
The fabric was soft, heavy, cool under her fingertips—luxurious in a way that made her skin tingle. It shimmered under the room's warm lights, catching the air like it had been made to move. She pulled the dress out, letting it fall open, and her breath hitched all over again.
It was... elegant. Simple, but not plain. Strong without being loud. It had presence. Like it had been sewn with intention, like someone had seen her when they imagined it.
And nestled at the bottom of the box—like a secret only for her—was a headpiece. Gold, delicate, intricate. Tiny vines curled and twisted like something grown, not forged. It wasn't just a tiara. It was a crown in disguise.
Vanessa stood frozen, the dress held against her chest, her heart thudding so loud she was sure her mother could hear it.
This wasn't just a dress.
It was a statement.
"Oh, sweetheart," her mom breathed, standing up and placing a hand over her heart. "Put it on. I need to see this."
Still dazed, Vanessa nodded, the dress clutched against her like something sacred, and turned to her room like she was sleepwalking.
She changed in silence, her fingers trembling more than she wanted to admit. The fabric slid against her skin like a whisper—weightless, silky, impossibly perfect.
And then she looked in the mirror.
For a second, she genuinely forgot how to breathe.
The neckline framed her collarbones with effortless grace—modest, yet suggestive enough to draw the eye. The bodice clung to her waist as if molded to her very ribs, sculpted by desire itself. The fabric spilled over her hips in a soft cascade, skimming her curves with liquid elegance. A daring slit traced up her left thigh, not just revealing skin, but inviting the imagination. In that dress, she didn't walk the carpet—she hovered above it, untouchable, ethereal.Her fingers trembled as they touched the mirror.
She didn't look cute. Or sweet. Or even beautiful.
She looked powerful.
And it scared her how much she liked it.
She stepped out of the room still wearing the gown, and the second her mother saw her, she let out a soft, reverent gasp.
"Vanessa," she whispered, genuine awe in her voice. "That's it. That's the dress."
Vanessa didn't speak. She couldn't. Her throat was tight and her heart wouldn't settle.
Because it was perfect.
Because it shouldn't be perfect.
Because no part of her believed in coincidence—and yet here this was, fitting her body like a second skin and wearing a color that had haunted her since the moment Ethan smirked at her like he owned the room.
She turned away from the mirror with purpose, crossing her arms, still in the damn dress.
"Alright," she said. "Spill."
Her mother blinked, feigning confusion. "Spill what?"
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "Don't play dumb. Where did this come from?"
Her mom just sipped her tea, too calm. Too collected. "I don't know, sweetheart. It was on the porch when I got home from errands. Your name was on it."
Vanessa stared her down, trying to see through her mother's mask—but if she was bluffing, she was playing it like a professional.
No note. No sender. No receipt. Nothing but her name and the perfect storm wrapped in silk and gold.
She turned the details over in her head, chewing on every implication. There were only two realistic suspects.
Her mother—who was capable of being sneaky, yes, but not this sneaky. And her expression didn't have the kind of satisfaction someone would wear after successfully pulling off a mission like this. She was enjoying the moment, not orchestrating it.
Which left...
Ethan.
Vanessa nearly laughed aloud. Because no. No. There was no way Ethan Smith, king of sarcasm and chaos, had orchestrated this.
He wore black like it was a second skin. He couldn't tell linen from velvet. His idea of fashion was probably grabbing whatever was clean.
But...
He had known she was coming that day, without her saying a word.
He had made lunch for two.
He had asked her to prom without blinking.
He'd said he didn't hate her.
And he had looked her in the eyes like she was something worth watching.
Ethan was full of surprises.
Her hand ghosted over the emerald silk at her side, feeling the way it rippled like water. The fit. The fabric. The color. The crown.
He couldn't have picked this out.
But if he had...
Why?
Her chest tightened. Was it a joke? A trap? Or worse—was it real?
Vanessa stared down at her reflection again, and this time she saw something different in her eyes.
Hope.
Terror.
Possibility.
Her mother was still watching her, a quiet smile on her face.
"You look like you're overthinking," she said softly.
Vanessa muttered, "I am. And it's your fault."
Her mom chuckled, that maddening glint still in her eye. "Sometimes it's okay to just enjoy the moment, you know."
Vanessa shot her a look. "That's what people say when they're guilty."
Her mother just sipped her tea again, unconcerned.
Vanessa turned back to the mirror.
The dress was perfect.
Too perfect.
And that was what scared her most.
Because if Ethan did send this—
If he picked it, if he thought she'd look good in it—
If he knew she'd feel like this in it—
Then this wasn't just about prom.
And she wasn't sure she was ready for what that meant.
She wasn't sure if she wanted to strangle him or kiss him.
And how the hell did it fit so well?
Vanessa ran her hands down the smooth, impossibly soft fabric of the dress, fingertips ghosting along the curves it hugged so intimately. It didn't just fit—it knew her. Knew the shape of her waist, the length of her legs, the subtle slope of her shoulders. It clung to her like it had been sewn while she was standing still in the room, not bought, not altered—made.
Too perfect. Way too perfect.
She turned slowly, angling her body in front of the mirror, scrutinizing herself with a mix of suspicion and awe. The cut fell exactly where it should. The neckline wasn't too high, wasn't too low—just enough to draw attention without asking for it. The fabric skimmed her hips like water, and the hem kissed the tops of her feet, neither dragging nor cutting off her movement.
Someone had known her measurements. Down to the millimeter.
And that... that narrowed the list.
Her eyes cut sharply to her mother—still seated on the couch, tea cradled in both hands, wearing a face far too pleased with itself. A face that looked like it enjoyed watching her unravel.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "Okay, fine. Let's say I believe you didn't buy the dress." Her voice was sharp, pointed, the words dripping with doubt. "How do you explain the fact that it fits me this well?"
Her mother didn't blink. "What do you mean?" she asked sweetly, eyes innocent and wide.
Vanessa threw her arms up, exasperated. "I mean," she snapped, "that I've never told anyone my size. Not Ethan. Not Hannah. Not even the damn salespeople when we went dress shopping—you always did the talking! Only you knew my measurements."
Her mother set her cup down with infuriating calm, leaning back slightly. "Sweetheart," she said lightly, "I am your mother. I think I know your size better than you do."
Vanessa clenched her jaw. That was not an answer. That was a dodge. And her mother knew it.
"That doesn't explain," she hissed, pacing now, the hem of the gown swaying like a shadow around her ankles, "how this mysterious fairy god-sender knew it too."
Her mother's lips curled. That smile again. "Are you sure," she asked innocently, "you never told Ethan?"
Vanessa froze.
Blink. "Obviously," she snapped. "Why would I ever do that?"
An eyebrow arched in response. "I don't know, darling. You are dating him. Maybe he just... figured it out?"
And there it was.
Vanessa's cheeks flamed instantly. Her stomach turned a somersault so fast she nearly staggered. "What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, voice higher, flustered.
Her mother didn't answer—just gave her the look. That maddeningly smug, I-know-something-you-don't look. The same one she'd worn when Vanessa took her first steps, when she came home late from a party, when Ethan had drove her home from school and her mother had just smiled without a word.
Vanessa shook her head furiously. "No way. No way he just guessed."
Her mother shrugged one shoulder. "Ethan is a very observant boy. You'd be surprised what he notices."
That thought hit like a brick between the ribs.
Had he really been watching her that closely?
Had he been—what, cataloguing her body in his head? Quietly? Without ever making it obvious? Without her even noticing?
The idea made her feel exposed and... something else. Something hot. Something electric.
She turned abruptly and stormed into her room, yanking her phone from the charger like it had personally offended her. Her heart was hammering now, her pulse skittering under her skin.
She dialed before she could second-guess it.
The call connected. "Ethan," she snapped, not even bothering to greet him, "how the hell did you guess my size so perfectly?"
There wasn't a pause. Not even a fake one.
"It was easy," he said.
Vanessa blinked. "Easy?" she repeated, nearly sputtering. "Easy?! Ethan, this fits me like it was hand-stitched by someone with a tape measure on my skin—and you're telling me you just guessed?"
"I know." His voice was maddeningly casual, like they were talking about the weather.
"You know? What does that even mean?!"
"It means I know people's sizes," he said, like it was the most normal sentence in the world. "Yours. Your mom's. Probably half our teachers too."
Vanessa's mind ground to a halt.
"You... what?"
"It's just something I pick up on," Ethan went on, unbothered. "Height, proportions, fabric drape—it's not that complicated once you know what to look for."
Vanessa sat down on the edge of her bed, the phone pressed tight to her ear, her free hand gripping the dress at her side like it might ground her.
"How are you—how do you even do that?"
For the first time, his tone shifted—just a flicker of amusement curling at the edge of his voice. "Inbuilt talent of a fashion designer's son."
She stilled. Her breath caught.
"...Wait. What?"
"My mom was a designer," he said simply. "Made custom outfits. Ran her own shop when I was younger. I picked up a few things."
Vanessa stared at herself in the mirror, her reflection wide-eyed, stunned.
Suddenly, everything clicked. Ethan's unnervingly sharp attention to detail. The fact that he never wore anything ill-fitting. How his black wardrobe, while boring, was meticulously cut and layered. Not flashy—but always exact.
Of course he would know.
Of course this wasn't random.
Of course she had underestimated him.
And now she was sitting here, flushed, floored, and dressed in a perfect gown he'd chosen for her like it was nothing.
"You're telling me you've been walking around, knowing everyone's size like some kind of fashion savant, and you just—what—never thought that was relevant?"
"It never came up," he said.
Vanessa groaned, dropping back on the bed and covering her face with one hand. "It never—Ethan!"
He chuckled softly, deep and teasing. "You're welcome, by the way."
She let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a scream and a laugh. "You're impossible."
But despite the heat in her cheeks, the twist in her stomach... she was smiling. She couldn't not smile.
A fashion designer's son. Of course. That was the kind of thing Ethan would bury like a secret in his back pocket, only pulling it out when it had maximum effect.
Vanessa hung up the call and lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling as the storm in her head refused to settle. Her brain felt like static. Her chest still buzzed from the call, from the sound of his voice in her ear. So calm. So smug. So him.
"Unbelievable," she muttered.
She stood again and turned in front of the mirror, running her fingers over the emerald silk. It shimmered with every movement, catching light like a promise. No creases. No tightness. Not a single imperfection.
If Ethan could read her body like this—if he could see her so clearly without her saying a word—
Then what else did he know?
What else had he been watching?
And what exactly did this dress mean to him?
But he couldn't be this right. Not this precisely, this intimately.
Vanessa's breath caught, something sharp snagging in her chest. She whipped her head toward the bedroom door, heart thudding.
Mom.
The thought was instant, instinctual. A gut-deep certainty that bloomed like a flare in her stomach.
She bolted out of the room, nearly tripping over the hem of the emerald dress, its silky fabric whispering around her ankles as if trying to hold her back. Her feet slapped against the hallway floor in hurried, uneven rhythm, her pulse quickening with every step.
The living room came into view—and there was her mother.
Perfectly poised on the couch, legs crossed, tea forgotten on the side table as she casually scrolled through her phone. Her expression was almost neutral. A little too neutral. Like she had been waiting. Like she already knew.
"You knew." Vanessa's voice cut through the quiet like a blade, too sharp to ignore.
Her mother didn't even glance up. "Knew what, sweetheart?"
That tone. Polite. Detached. Infuriatingly fake.
Vanessa's eyes narrowed, blood roaring in her ears. "Don't play dumb." She gestured wildly at the dress, her hand trembling. "You had something to do with this, didn't you? There's no way Ethan just magically figured out my size without some kind of inside help."
Her mother finally looked up, and the smirk that bloomed across her face made Vanessa want to scream.
"Oh?" she said, all sweetly suggestive. "So you think Ethan has a reason to memorize your measurements?"
Heat exploded in Vanessa's face so fast it felt like her skin had caught fire. "MOM!"
But her mother only laughed, leaning back into the cushions, absolutely delighted with herself. "Relax," she said, between chuckles. "I didn't tell him. But... I may have given him a little hint when he asked about your hip measurements."
Vanessa groaned, dragging her hands down her face with a strangled noise. "I knew it. I knew you were in on this! You traitor!"
Her mom gave a helpless shrug, still grinning. "What can I say? I like the boy. He's got good taste."
Vanessa slumped onto the couch beside her, the dress pooling around her legs like liquid emerald. She exhaled loudly, the tension pouring out of her bones as confusion and fluster settled in its place. "I still can't believe he knew my size just by looking at me. That's... that's kind of terrifying."
Her mother hummed, tilting her head. "Or impressive."
"Or creepy."
"Or sweet."
Vanessa shot her a glare. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Oh, absolutely," her mother beamed. "And just for the record? That dress? Looks incredible on you. Honestly, if Ethan picked it out on his own, then you've got yourself quite the keeper."
Vanessa bit her lip, turning her face away. She hated how much that comment warmed her, how deep it sank. Because deep down, beneath the panic and the protest... she knew her mom wasn't wrong.
Her mother poked her head into the room, wearing the kind of grin that spelled danger. "So... you called Ethan, huh?"
Vanessa shot upright. "How do you—?"
"You were loud." Her mother stepped inside, entirely unbothered. "So? Did he confess?"
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "Confess what?"
"That he bought the dress, of course."
Vanessa hesitated, arms crossing tightly. "...Not exactly."
Her mother's brow rose. "Really?"
"He just said it was easy. That he's good at this sort of thing."
Her mom blinked once—then burst into laughter. "Oh, honey," she said through the laughter. "That boy didn't guess. He knows."
Vanessa scowled, lightly kicking the edge of the bed. "Yeah. I got that much."
Her mother sat beside her, brushing a hand along the dress with something almost tender in her touch. "I have to say, he has excellent taste. And honestly, it's nice... seeing someone put in this much effort for you."
Vanessa felt that warmth rise again, slow and uninvited. She dropped her gaze, voice quieter now. "...I didn't ask him to."
"You didn't have to." Her mother's voice softened. "That's the point."
That sentence sank deeper than Vanessa expected.
She wasn't used to this. To someone noticing her without being prompted. To being seen and understood before she had to explain herself.
She pressed her fingers against the fabric at her thigh, thoughtful and tense, her mind spinning in circles.
What else was he hiding?
And more pressingly...
Why does it feel like he always knows exactly what I need—before I even do?
Vanessa let out a deep, heavy sigh, her fingers still brushing lightly over the fabric of the dress, the soft, cool texture teasing her fingertips. But it was more than just the fabric she was feeling—it was everything else. The weight of her thoughts felt heavier than the dress itself, pressing down on her chest, clouding her mind.
Her mother had left the room with that look on her face, that knowing, satisfied grin, and Vanessa had half a mind to run after her and demand more answers. But her legs refused to move, her body locked in place as her mind reeled. Ethan... Ethan.
He had been an enigma from the moment he had dodged her punches. She'd always prided herself on being able to read people—after all, she had been doing it for years, carefully studying expressions, body language, and little nuances to protect herself. But Ethan? He was different. From the start, he didn't flinch when she threw punches, didn't flinch when she challenged him, when she tested his patience. No matter what she did, he was always calm, collected, a blank slate she couldn't decipher. But lately, it felt like she wasn't just playing catch-up anymore. It wasn't even about catching up.
Ethan was miles ahead of her.
It wasn't just the way he moved with purpose, the way he anticipated her every reaction, or how effortlessly he seemed to dodge everything she threw at him, whether it was a challenge, a teasing remark, or a real confrontation. It was the things she couldn't explain. The small moments where it felt like he already knew what she needed before she even realized it herself.
Take the dress.
Vanessa's heart squeezed again, just thinking about it. The emerald green fabric. The way it hugged her body. How it wasn't just fitting—it was shaping her, highlighting parts of her she hadn't even known she was ready to embrace. She had felt the way her mother's approving gaze had lingered. But it wasn't just about the dress. It wasn't just about how it clung to her curves or made her look like someone else, someone more polished, more... refined.
It was about how Ethan knew. How he knew.
She had never told him her size, never even mentioned it in passing, not even when they had gone shopping together. Her mother had always done the talking when it came to picking out clothes, had always kept the measurements close to the chest. The thought that Ethan somehow pieced it all together—without ever asking, without ever even hinting at it—made her insides churn. But it wasn't just that.
It was the way he knew. The way he saw things before she even realized they were there. The way his attention never seemed forced, never seemed calculated, but always landed on exactly what mattered to her, whether she was aware of it or not.
And this time... this time, he had done something.
She could almost see it now: his casual voice, so calm, so natural when he explained how it wasn't just a guess. How he wasn't taking a shot in the dark. "I know people's sizes, Vanessa. Yours, your mom's, your dad's..." The way he had said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. He hadn't hesitated. He hadn't made it seem like a big deal. He knew, and he didn't even pause to think about it.
His words had hit her like a thunderclap, jarring her to the core. The way he described it—like it was as natural as breathing—made her stomach flip in ways she couldn't understand. And there, in that moment, she had realized something even more unsettling.
He didn't just know her measurements.
He understood her.
The dress was just the latest example. It was as though he could see beneath the surface, into places she hadn't let anyone look, not even herself.
Her fingers tightened on the fabric as her mind spun out of control, remembering the way he'd casually added that he was "just good at it," as though it was no more remarkable than knowing someone's favorite color.
But it was more than that. It was deeper.
What else does he know about me?
The question hung in the air, unspoken, but it buzzed around her head like an electric current. She hated the thought, but it was undeniable. Ethan knew her better than anyone had a right to. She had spent years building walls, fortifying her boundaries, keeping people out. And somehow, without her even realizing it, he had breached them all.
How had he done it? How had he gotten so close so fast? She had pushed him away, thrown up every barrier, every snarky comment, every challenge—but it was like he saw straight through them all. No matter how much she tried to hide, no matter how hard she tried to distance herself, Ethan had always been there—on the other side, watching, waiting.
She sank back onto the bed, her body suddenly feeling too heavy to move. She let out a long breath, trying to release the knot that had twisted in her chest, but it didn't work. The feeling of being seen, of being understood, clawed at her insides. She didn't know if she was angry or terrified.
Why does it feel like he always knows what I need before I do?
The thought lingered, uninvited, and Vanessa shifted uncomfortably on the sheets, the emerald dress now feeling too tight, too heavy on her skin. She ran her hands over the fabric again, feeling its cool smoothness, but this time, it didn't bring her any comfort. Instead, it made her more aware of how exposed she was. How much of herself she had unknowingly revealed to Ethan, piece by piece, layer by layer.
The anger, the confusion, the embarrassment, they all tangled together in a knot too tight for her to untangle. But underneath it all, there was something else. Something softer. A fluttering in her chest that she didn't want to acknowledge, something that made her question if this entire thing—this dress, this moment, Ethan—wasn't just a mistake. Wasn't just an accident.
What if it's more?
The thought was too fragile, too terrifying to hold for too long. She couldn't afford to admit it. But her heart, for reasons she couldn't control, began to wonder.
~~~~~