Fuck.
I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t know how. Because I’m not the guy who does this. It’s too far removed from who I am.
But Bells isn’t just some girl. She’s my girl. And she deserves better than me simply assuming she’ll go with me. She deserves to be asked. Properly.
I’ll figure something out. Something that’s not a glitter poster, roses, or any of that other bullshit. Something that shows I care without being an idiot in front of everyone at school.
Something that’s... me.
She loves me, right? That has to count for something.
It’s late when I get home from work. Yeah, I call it home now because it’s the only home in my damn life that has ever felt like one.
I drive Bells’ car into the driveway, turn off the engine, and sit there for a second in the sudden quiet. The house is dark except for the porch light left on for me when I get home. Almost all of the windows are black, the kind of darkness that means everyone’s asleep. Except for Bells’ room upstairs. Her windowglows soft yellow, with the curtains drawn but the light seeps through at the edges.
Which means her dad went to bed early. He usually does these days, exhausted from physical therapy and the effort it takes to exist in a body that doesn’t work the way it used to. The man who used to work twelve-hour shifts without breaking a sweat now gets wiped out after an hour of trying to relearn how to use his left hand.
It’s fucked up, all of it, but at least he’s home.
Which means Bells is upstairs in her room, probably doing homework even though it’s almost eleven. Or she might be reading one of those romance novels she pretends she doesn’t read but definitely does. I’ve seen the stack on her nightstand—covers with shirtless guys and women in ball gowns. She gets embarrassed when I bring them up, telling me they’re trash and she only reads them to turn her brain off. But I’ve seen her smiling at the pages, biting her lip, getting lost in whatever cheesy stuff is happening between the characters.
It’s annoyingly cute.
I sit in the car for a minute, the engine ticking as it cools, and grab the piece of paper from the passenger seat. The one I made during my shift tonight when the diner was dead and I had nothing to do except wipe down tables that were already clean and think about how the fuck I was going to ask Bells to prom.
It’s black Sharpie on a sheet of white paper. The letters are large and messy, my handwriting is terrible because I was writing quickly, trying to finish before someone came in and saw what I was doing.
It’s not fancy. There’s no glitter. Definitely no flowers, cupcakes, or any of the unnecessary bullshit I saw at school today. But it’s me.
I stare at the paper for another second, my chest tight with something I can’t name. Maybe nerves. Or fear she’ll laugh. Orworse, that she’ll look at this pathetic excuse for a prom ask and realize she could do better. That she should do better.
But then I think about how she pulled me into her life and refused to let go, even when I gave her every reason to. That’s when I step out of the car.
The house is quiet when I enter, the only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the house settling. I toe off my shoes by the door, leaving them next to Bells’ sneakers, and move through the dark living room toward the stairs.
I take them slowly, avoiding the spots I know squeak. Third step. Seventh step. The top one that groans if you put your weight on the left side.
When I reach Bell’s door, I stop. My heart is pounding harder than it should be. This is so stupid. It’s a fucking prom. Just a dance… a question. But it is so much bigger than that.
It’s proof that I’m trying. That I’m not the same asshole I was six months ago. That I’m willing to do the things that matter to her, even if it makes me feel like a pathetic idiot.
I turn the handle slowly and listen to the door creak open.
It’s not romantic at all. It sounds more like creepy horror movie stuff than a grand gesture. The hinges creak in the silence, and I half expect Bells to grab something off her nightstand and hurl it at me, thinking it’s Michael Myers coming into her room with a kitchen knife.
Maybe I should have rethought this approach. But it’s already too late now.
She looks up from her paperback, her eyes widening slightly when she sees me standing in the doorway. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, with a few strands falling loose around her face. She’s wearing one of my old shirts—the black one with the faded band logo that she stole weeks ago and never gave back—and a pair of sleep shorts that make her legs look endless.
She’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
I hold the sign out in front of me, like the pathetic bastard who’s completely gone for her. The paper crinkles slightly in my grip, the black Sharpie’s bold and uneven letters across the white surface.
The sign says, in messy, large letters: BELLS, WILL YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME?
For a moment, she just stares at it. Her eyes scan the words, reading them once and then again, as if she’s making sure she’s understanding it correctly. Her face brightens into a wide smile that lights up her entire expression, and she laughs. An unguarded sound that eases the nervous knot in my chest.
“Jace,” she says, setting her book down on the nightstand and getting onto her knees on the bed. She’s still smiling, but there’s something teasing in her eyes now. “You can’t just hold up a sign. You have to ask me.”
