HIS ROOMMATE

PROM NIGHT

CHAPTER 22

KAI'S POV

I have no choice but to put on the black dress Nancy brought for me. Well, it looks really good on me. I hardly put dresses on but this is really good.

“Overreacting” is Nancy’s baseline. But fine, I’ll admit it — the dress does something. Black, fitted, no sleeves. Makes me look like I actually tried, which is a lie. I tried for about 3 minutes before giving up and letting Nancy win.

I step out and she freezes mid-eye-roll. Like, literally freezes. Mouth open, dress in hand, the whole dramatic pause thing she does when she wants to be extra.

“I’m speechless, Kai,” Nancy says.

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. If I don’t, she’ll take it as permission to launch into a full TED Talk about my cheekbones.

“You say that about my cereal choices,” I mutter, tugging at the hem of the black dress even though there’s nothing to tug. It falls perfect. That’s the problem. Dresses aren’t supposed to feel this natural on me. I live in hoodies and doubt. This thing makes me look like I planned to be here.

Nancy doesn’t answer. She just starts circling me. Slow. Deliberate. Like I’m evidence and she’s the detective who already solved the case. Her eyes drag from my messy bun down to the heels she forced on me, then back up again.

“No,” she says finally, voice dropping like she’s revealing state secrets. “This is different. All the guys are gonna short-circuit when they see you.”

I snort. “Overreacting is your baseline, Nancy.” I cross my arms, but the dress cuts in a way that makes the move look intentional instead of defensive. Rude. “Can you stop being dramatic? It’s not that out of this world.”

She stops circling. Steps in close. Grabs my shoulders like she’s about to shake sense into me, but her hands are gentle. Her reflection meets mine in the full-length mirror behind me.

“Kai,” she says, and for once there’s no performance in it. No gasp, no flourish. Just Nancy, quiet and sure. “You look really beautiful.”

The word hangs there. Not “pretty.” Not “hot.” Beautiful.

I don’t know what to do with that, so I do what I always do — I look away, pretend I didn’t hear it, and pretend my chest didn’t do that weird tight thing.

Nancy just smiles like she won. That slow, smug curve of her lips that says *I told you so* without her having to waste the breath.

Before I can fire back some sarcastic comment, she’s already moving. She snatches up the blue dress from the back of the chair — the one that looked like liquid midnight in the bag — and bolts for my room like the floor’s on fire.

“Two minutes,” she calls over her shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere looking that good without me.”

I lean against the wall and wait. The apartment goes quiet except for the rustle of fabric and her muttered cursing as she wrestles with a zipper. I’ve seen Nancy ready for a final exam in less time than this, but prom apparently requires ritual sacrifice.

Then the door clicks.

She steps out and the air in the room shifts.

Extraordinary doesn’t even cover it. The blue hits her skin like it was custom-dyed for her. It dips low in the front, cinches at her waist, and flows out like water when she moves. She didn’t even try that hard — just pinned her hair up in that messy way that looks accidental but took 15 minutes, and added one silver necklace.

Nancy is the kind of beautiful that makes people forget their own names. She doesn’t have to try. She walks into a room and it rearranges itself around her. Guys trip over words. Girls pretend not to stare.

She does a slow spin for me, and the dress catches the light from my crappy overhead bulb and turns it into something expensive.

“Well?” She lifts an eyebrow, already knowing the answer. “Speechless again?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Because yeah. Speechless again.

“Told you,” Nancy says, snatching her clutch off the table like she’s claiming a trophy. The smugness is practically glowing off her. “We’re gonna ruin prom just by walking in.”

I can’t help it — I laugh. Loud. The kind of laugh that breaks the tension I didn’t even realize I was holding. She’s always like this. Big statements, bigger drama, zero chill. But standing there in that blue dress, with her hair catching the light like she planned it, she kind of makes you believe her.

“Drama queen,” I mutter, but I’m already reaching for my own clutch. My heels click against the floor as we head for the door.

The night air hits us the second we step outside.

The second we step outside, New York hits us. Cool April air, the smell of pretzels from the cart on the corner, taxi horns in the distance, and that constant hum the city never turns off.

And parked at the curb, taking up half the block, is a black car. Long. Tinted. The kind that makes yellow cabs look underdressed.

I stop dead on the sidewalk. “Is this your car?” I ask, because my brain short-circuits before my manners do.

Nancy just shrugs. One shoulder, effortless, like she didn’t just summon a limo with her mind. She slides into the backseat first, dress pooling around her like water.

“Not really,” she says once I’m in beside her, the leather cool under my legs. “But my dad wouldn’t let me go alone. So he told the driver to take us instead.”The driver nods at us in the rearview mirror. Professional. Silent. Definitely paid to pretend he doesn’t hear us gossip.

I press my hand against the cool window as we pull away from the curb. Manhattan blurs past — brick buildings, fire escapes stacked like ladders to the sky, neon signs flickering to life. A yellow cab cuts in front of us. Someone leans out a fourth-floor window yelling about their dog.

“What about your brother, Nathan?” I ask, watching the city roll by. “He’s not riding with us?”

Nancy makes a face. Half amused, half traumatized. “Please. I can’t be a third wheel between him and his date Flora. They’ve been basically attached at the hip since they got their tickets. I’d rather ride with you and pretend we’re in a movie for one night.”

She winks. The car glides down the street, smooth and quiet, while the rest of New York rushes past outside. Just me, Nancy, two overdressed girls, and a prom we swore we weren’t going to.

The car slows and suddenly the world outside goes loud.

We pull up in front of the Riverside Grand — some old ballroom in Manhattan that only opens for weddings, galas, and apparently desperate high school proms. Red carpet rolls out from the curb to the doors. Camera flashes pop like fireflies. Parents stand behind velvet ropes, phones up, yelling names like they’re at an awards show.

Nancy checks her lipstick in the compact mirror, then snaps it shut. “Ready to ruin it?”

“Define ruin,” I say, but my palms are sweating anyway. The driver gets out, opens our door, and the noise hits me all at once. Music thumping from inside. Laughter. That bass you feel in your teeth.

Nancy slides out first, blue dress catching every camera flash. She doesn’t walk. She *arrives*. Chin up, smile easy, like she was born on red carpets. I hear a few “whoa”s from the crowd. Someone actually drops their phone.

Then it’s my turn.

I step out and the night air wraps around me. The black dress moves with me, not against me, and for once I don’t feel like I’m playing dress-up. I feel… sharp. Like the city itself.

The cameras turn. Not all of them. But enough. Flash. Flash. Flash.

“Who is that with Nancy?”

“Is that Kai? She never wears dresses—”

“She looks different—”

I keep my eyes forward. Don’t scan the crowd. Don’t look for anyone. Nancy hooks her arm through mine like we rehearsed this, and we start walking. Heels clicking on the carpet. Each step louder than the last.

The doors open and warm air rushes out, smelling like perfume, punch, and too much hairspray. Chandeliers drip light over marble floors. The DJ’s already going — some remix that makes the whole room vibrate. Couples spin on the dance floor. This is really something unexpected

TBC