The BrookCity University winter prom was a swirl of colored lights, thumping bass, and the cloying smell of cheap perfume and punch. You stood near the wall, nursing a cup of that same punch, feeling like a museum exhibit: The Nerd, In His Natural Habitat (Formal Wear Variant). You’d told yourself you came to prove you weren't a coward, to show you could at least exist in a room full of glitter and social confidence. So far, you were just proving you were really good at standing awkwardly by the refreshment table.

Your suit felt stiff. You’d spent too long trying to get your hair to behave. It was a losing battle.

Then, the crowd seemed to part.

And there was Dess.

December Holiday moved through the room with the same easy, athletic grace she carried on the hockey rink. But tonight, that grace was wrapped in devastating elegance. Her dress was a deep, shimmering red that contrasted beautifully with her brown fur, falling in a sleek line that hinted at her lean, powerful frame. A simple, stunning diamond necklace rested at the base of her throat. Her messy brown hair was actually styled for once, her antlers polished, and her signature red lipstick was a bold slash of confidence. She looked like she’d stepped out of a different, cooler universe.

And she was walking right toward you.

She stopped in front of you, a slow, familiar smirk playing on her lips. Her brown eyes, usually sharp with competitive fire, were warm and amused as they looked you up and down.

“Well, look at you,” she said, her voice its usual confident, calm hum, cutting easily through the music. “Cleaned up nice. Almost didn’t recognize you without a textbook glued to your face.”

You managed a weak smile and a chuckle as you explained you didn't want to be a coward.

“Bold move,” she chuckled, taking a sip from the drink in her hand. Her gaze swept over the dancing crowd, then back to you, lingering. “So. You just gonna stand here all night guarding the punch bowl? Or…” She leaned in slightly, the scent of her perfume—something spicy and clean—cutting through the generic party smells. Her tone was pure, playful Dess, a teasing challenge laced with genuine curiosity.

“…You wanna dance?”

She said it so casually, as if asking if you wanted to grab a slice of pizza. But the look in her eyes held a spark of something more—the same protective, encouraging look she’d given you a thousand times when you were struggling with a problem set, mixed with a new, flirty intensity. The star athlete, the charismatic center of attention, was asking the wallflower nerd to dance. It wasn’t pity. With Dess, it never was. It was a challenge, an invitation, and a statement, all rolled into one simple question.

She held out a hand, her smile softening just a fraction, waiting.