"Because..." My laugh comes out shaky, small. "You kind of disappeared, Zach. I haven't seen you in days. You barely texted."
My eyes sting. Great. Exactly what I don't want to do—cry in a tiara.
Before the tear can fall, Zach's thumb catches it, brushing gently beneath my eye. His touch is featherlight, but the look in his eyes—God, it's so raw it makes me forget how to breathe.
"Hey, I didn't change my mind," he says quietly. "I've just been busy." He gestures vaguely around us, a small, almost sheepish motion. "You know... putting this together."
A shaky laugh slips from me. "How did you even pull this off in just a few days anyway?"
He grins, boyish and proud. "Not without a little help. This whole thing was basically a group project—minus the part where anyone knew what they were doing."
My brows lift. "Define help."
"Well, Lucy might've slipped me your measurements after your costume fittings last Tuesday." He grins when my mouth drops open.
"Lucy also helped sell the whole 'sponsors dropping by' story. A couple of faculty members pitched in too—they helped me get clearance to use the gym, the sound system, lights, all that stuff."
He chuckles under his breath. "My teammates took care of the setup—the whole décor—with your classmates. You should've seen them—six Division I hockey players arguing over which shade of pink ribbon matched the theme. It was chaos."
I snort. "You're insane."
"Probably," he says, that smug grin creeping back in. "But I'm efficient."
"Wait, what did you need my measurements for?"
Zach smirks, that knowing, trouble-making kind of smile. "For that." His gaze drifts down, sweeping over my dress. "Don't you recognize it?"
I glance down, fingers brushing the glittering fabric. "No..." My voice trails off as I reallylook. "No way. This isn't...thedress, is it?"
"It is."
My mouth falls open. "No freaking way! That dress was massive—how—"
"Alterations." He's grinning like a proud idiot now. "Last Tuesday night, when I said I had somewhere to go? I drove to Naples. Met your mom."
"My mom knew?"
"Yep," he says, all smug and infuriatingly charming. "She was actually thrilled. She gave me the contact for the original seamstress—the one who made your Sugarplum dress—and helped convince her to put a rush on the alterations."
I shake my head, speechless. "You... you did all these? In three days?"
He shrugs like it's no big deal. "Hey, when it's for you, I don't do half measures."
My chest tightens again, but this time it's with something impossibly warm. "Zach... why would you go through all that trouble?"
His hand slides to the small of my back, drawing me closer until I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin.
"It wasn't trouble," he murmurs, his voice low and steady. "And I didn't just do it for you."
My brows knit. "What do you mean?"
Something shifts in his face—softness tangled with regret. "You see, three years ago," he says quietly, "I was planning to ask you to be my girlfriend. At prom."
The air leaves my lungs. "Wha—what?"
He lets out a short, breathless laugh, like he can't believe he's saying it out loud. "Yeah. I'd been rehearsing it in my head for weeks. I must've rewritten the words a hundred times—every version worse than the last. I couldn't sleep, couldn't focus. You were all I thought about." His thumb traces slow, comforting circles along my cheek, his voice dropping into something rough and fragile.
"And I kept telling myself, 'It's fine. Just wait for prom. That's the night you'll tell her. That's when everything changes.'"
