I asked him last week if he needed help getting a suit. I offered to go with him to the rental place to make sure he had everything sorted out. But he just gave me that cocky grin of his and told me he had it all under control. Which, in Jace’s language, could mean anything. It might mean he really has it under control. Or it could mean he’s planning to show up in jeans and a t-shirt and just call it good enough.
I take a deep breath and smooth my hands down the front of my dress, trying to calm the raging in my chest. It’s fine. Whatever he’s wearing, it’s fine. This is Jace. My Jace. And I shouldn’t care if he shows up in a garbage bag as long as he’s there.
But still, I want tonight to be perfect.
I grab my small clutch bag off the bed—another thing Aubrey insisted I needed—and head toward the door. My heels click softly against the hardwood as I step into the hallway, and that’s when I hear voices downstairs.
Jace and my dad.
I pause at the top of the stairs, my hand gripping the railing, listening.
“You take good care of her tonight,” my dad says. He’s been doing better lately, his speech has been improving with each week of therapy. “She’s... excited.”
“I know,” Jace says. “I’ll take care of her, Sir. I promise.”
“Good.” There’s a pause, before my dad says, “You look good, Jace. You clean up nice.”
Jace laughs. “Thanks. Wasn’t sure I’d pull it off.”
I love hearing them talk. I enjoy the easy way they speak to each other now and the bond they’ve built over the past few weeks. My dad trusts Jace. He respects him. And Jace treats my dad with so much care and patience that it still surprises me sometimes.
I start down the stairs, my heels tapping on the wood, and the conversation halts immediately. Both of them turn to look at me.
And then I see Jace. He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs in a suit that fits him so perfectly it makes my brain stutter. Black jacket, crisp white shirt, black tie that’s been loosened just slightly at the collar. The pants are tailored, hugging his legs in a way that’s almost illegal, and his hair is styled back but still messy enough that I can tell he ran his fingers through it at least once.
He looks... good. Incredible. Handsome doesn’t even begin to cover it. He looks older. Sharper. Hot enough to make my mouth go dry and my heart forget how to beat properly. It’s the kind of hot that belongs on magazine covers or movie screens, not standing in my living room waiting to take me to prom.
But it’s the way he’s gazing at me that makes me forget how to breathe. His eyes are locked on mine, filled with something that makes my knees weak. His lips part slightly, and for a second, he just stares, frozen in place as if someone hit pause on him.
“Bells,” he manages to say. “You look... fuck.”
He doesn’t complete the sentence. Just shakes his head and steps toward me, reaching out his hand as I descend the last few steps.
I take it as my fingers slip into his, and he pulls me gently toward him until we’re close enough that I can smell his cologne, which makes me want to bury my face in his neck and stay there forever.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice low so only I can hear. “So fucking beautiful I don’t know what to do with myself right now.”
My cheeks flush, heat spreading across my skin. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
“Yeah?” He grins, that cocky edge slipping back into his expression. “Thought I’d make an effort. Didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“You could never embarrass me,” I say.
His grin softens into something warmer as he reaches into his jacket pocket. “I got you something.”
He pulls out a small plastic box, and when he opens it, I see a corsage inside. White roses with tiny sprigs of greenery, delicate, simple, and perfect.
“Jace,” I breathe.
“I know it’s tradition or whatever,” he says, pulling it out carefully. “Figured I should do at least one thing right.”
He grabs my wrist, his fingers warm against my skin, and slides the corsage on. The elastic band settles comfortably, with the flowers resting against my wrist. He adjusts it slightly, making sure it fits just right, then looks up at me.
“Perfect,” he says.
I don’t know if he’s talking about the corsage or me.
Before I can ask, he leans in and kisses me. His hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushes along my jaw.
