It was the night of Senior Prom. Your nerves were in tangles, stomach doing flips as you took one last look at yourself in the mirror. Initially, you'd gone around telling everyone that you weren't going to this stupid dance; you didn't want to go. You'd even made plans with your mom, expressing to her that no one was going to ask you anyway, and you didn't want to spend the money on the whole dress thing. You had been trying to sell it to yourself. You had every intention of sticking to your guns until Peter had asked you to go with him.
You looked up from your book and over the tray of food in front of you to see Peter standing across the table. His hands shoved into his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet, the headphones around his neck rebounding up and down off his chest in time with his movements. You smiled at him.
"Hey, Pete," you offered, becoming curious and slightly nervous when his answering smile looked incredibly uncomfortable. You almost wanted to laugh. You were glad you didn't. He shocked you with the words that tumbled from his mouth.
"So do you maybe want to go to Prom?" The speed at which the words left his lips would have impressed you if you weren't suddenly a ball of nerves yourself. "You know, with me?"
You probably looked ridiculous: eyes wide as your mouth flopped open and closed a few times before you managed to respond. "Umm, O-OK," you nodded your head, the prospect of going to a dance with Peter finally working itself into your brain, "yeah, yes, yes."
He had stopped his bouncing in favor of a smile. "OK, cool."
"OK." You were still holding your book awkwardly almost in front of your face, too afraid of moving to put it down.
He gave you a nervous smile, turning his body away from you, stopping again, his hands coming out of hiding and gesturing to the line of people waiting to get their food, "OK, I'm just gonna..." he said before walking away in the direction his shaking hands had motioned.
"OK."
You couldn't have hid your smile if you'd tried.
Your mom had laughed at your sudden change of heart, the nervous excitement that had been building since he'd asked bursting from you as you'd told her. The two of you had gone out that weekend to find a dress. You'd decided on a soft blue color, long and silk, the skirt of the dress sweeping down to your ankles. It fit you snugly, hugging your body in all of the right places. Your bust was lined with delicate lace accents, the cut classy and elegant.
Your mom had spent a good part of the last hour doing your hair up in a series of swooping, intricate braids and curls, an affectionate smile on her face as her fingers worked. She liked Peter. She liked that you liked Peter.
Peter was good.
Your fingers worked to put a stubborn ringlet back into place, giving yourself an encouraging smile, "It's just Peter," you whispered, in an attempt to still the fluttering of your heart, before turning off the light and walking on unsteady legs out into the living room.
Peter stood there with wide eyes as you took each other in. You were good friends. You'd seen each other nearly every day since the start of middle school, but never like this. He looked dashing in his suit, the pale color of his tie complimenting the color you had picked for your dress. You could tell he had taken extra time styling his hair, the pieces falling into place in a more orderly fashion than you were used to seeing. The suit he'd picked fit him well, the broadness of his chest and shoulders evident, his legs and torso long and lean.
A heavy blush took over what felt like the whole of you as his eyes made their way down your body, his own cheeks splashed with color when he made it back up to your face.
"You look incredible in that," he said, his voice shaky, nerves apparent, he gestured to you then, his hand moving down the length of your form, "i-in a dress, I mean." He tilted his head then, internally scolding himself for his awkwardness.You could almost hear his internal monologue.
"Me? Look at you," you said, gesturing the same as he had, "who knew?" He let out a laugh then, spreading his arms and taking a turn so you could see from all angles.
You rolled your eyes at him. Your mom was doing her best not to laugh.
"Alright, alright, we get it, you're cute," you said as you fully entered the living room, looking towards your mom and at the camera she held in her hands.
He smiled at you then, his eyes soft as he took a step towards you, his fingers reaching for yours. The sensation like an electric charge as they glided across the back of your hand and up your wrist, sliding the corsage he'd bought into place. Delicate, ticklish touches. His gaze lingered on his fingers, at the way the weight of them dimpled your skin, both of his hands now holding onto yours.
Through all your years of friendship, your hands had touched many times and in many ways: casual exchanges, accidental brushes of fingertips, light touches to the backs of hands. For a long time, they'd meant nothing. It was only within the last couple of years that those touches had gradually begun to mean everything, all of them leaving your stomach fluttering and warmth in your chest that you had slowly grown accustomed to. The warmth that you had began to associate with all things Peter.
But never like this.
You were worried that he might be able to hear the frantic beating of your heart. Surely he could feel the way your racing pulse was making your veins jump. Almost like your body, even down to the tiniest cells in your blood, were reaching out for the attention of his hands, for every part of your skin to have the privilege of being touched by those fingers.
"You're so soft," you heard him whisper, so softly you were sure you weren't meant to have heard it.
The flash of a camera pulled you back into the present.
