COTE one shots

Ayanokouji's Prom

"Dude, are you ready for prom?"

"...Sure." I answered Sudo, though I had no idea what he meant by ready.

"It's a huge event, man. Even Suzune's coming. Her prom dress is gonna make me explode." He rambled on, hopelessly in love.

"What are you gonna wear, dude?"

"This."

"...Oh hell no, Ayanokouji. You are not showing up to prom in school clothes."

"Then what else am I meant to wear?"

"That," a warm voice chimed in, "I can arrange for you."

I turned to see Hirata approaching.

"Sure."

***

"Who are you planning to go with, Ayanokouji?" Hirata asked as he smoothed down the suit jacket.

"I'm about to arrange that now."

I glanced at myself in the mirror. Hirata had outdone himself. The black silk jacket over a crisp white shirt, the tie, the tailored trousers, the polished shoes — it was excessive for someone like me, but sometimes exceptions are allowed.

***

Prom night arrived. I stepped through the doors, and a few heads turned — some surprised, some impressed. Hirata looked particularly proud.

Then I saw Hiyori.

For a moment, despite myself, I forgot how to breathe.

Her silver hair flowed down her back like moonlight. The white gown wrapped around her frame with a softness that made her look almost unreal. Sleeveless, elegant, paired with long white gloves and silver heels that didn't add much height but added charm. Patterns of flowers and moons shimmered across the fabric.

Hiyori Shiina looked like she had stepped out of a storybook.

She smiled gently, and I found myself closing the distance between us without thinking.

"Shiina..." I said.

"You look great, Kiyotaka," she replied.

"No... you look great. Amazing."

"Do you know how to dance?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"I've never been taught."

"Then you'll follow my lead."

She took my hand, giving it a soft squeeze, and guided me toward the dance floor. The music washed over us — At Last by Etta James.

"Hand on my waist."

I obeyed, my hand settling around her narrow waist as my other intertwined with hers. She moved first, her steps light and rhythmic. I watched her feet, memorizing the pattern, letting my body adjust.

Soon enough, I matched her movements. We fell into a rhythm that felt strangely natural. She twirled beneath my hand, spun back into my arms, her back brushing my chest before I turned her again. We swayed, stepped, moved in sync. Her laughter was soft, melodic.

"You're a fast learner," she said.

I lowered my head to her shoulder, speaking near her neck. "It's a gift."

"You seem to have many gifts. Are you sure you've never danced before?"

Her voice faded behind my thoughts. Her neck, her lips, the delicate line of her collarbone — all of it pulled at something inside me I didn't recognize. Something I didn't think I was capable of feeling.

The dance ended, but I didn't let go. My hands tightened around her waist, afraid she'd slip away. The room quieted. Her breathing filled the silence, warm and steady, settling into places inside me I hadn't known were empty.

"Kiyotaka," she whispered, "it's time for dessert."

I reluctantly released her, though I kept her hand in mine. I looked into her silver eyes, confused by the intensity of what I felt.

What was this girl doing to me?

It didn't make sense.

But I liked the confusion she was making me feel.