The prom committee cleanup proved to be a much better excuse for a secret hookup than it ever had for actual cleaning.

Technically, we were supposed to be hauling glitter-soaked banners and half-deflated gold balloons to the back storage closet after hours. In reality, the gym looked like the aftermath of a very confused parade, and neither of us was moving particularly fast.

The gym was quiet except for the soft echo of our footsteps across the floor and the lazy spinning of a single disco ball, still going like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the party was over. Light bounced off the walls in slow, dizzy circles, throwing broken rainbows across the floor.

Jaxon was carrying two giant cardboard cutouts of fake Oscar statues. I was dragging a box labeled “EMERGENCY SEQUINS” with the kind of dignity reserved for someone seriously questioning her life choices.

“You’ve got glitter in your eyebrow,” Jaxon said, coming up beside me.

I dropped the box with a thud. “Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

He reached out, fingers brushing across my forehead in what could generously be called a helpful gesture and less generously be called harassment.

His hand lingered a second too long.

I looked up.

He was already watching me — the kind of look that felt less like “Are you okay?” and more like “What would happen if I kissed you right now?”

And then he did.

No warning. No pretense.

Just his mouth on mine, warm and sure, like we were still parked under a sky full of stars instead of under a disco ball shedding glitter onto our heads.

I kissed him back without thinking. Without planning. Without any of the guilt that sometimes buzzed behind my ribs when I thought about the people who would absolutely implode if they knew.

When we finally pulled apart, both of us a little breathless, I tried to be responsible.

“We’re gonna get caught,” I whispered.

“Someone probably already did,” he said, grinning that wicked grin that always made me want to punch him or kiss him harder — usually both.

I swatted his chest lightly. He caught my hand mid-swing and pressed a kiss to my knuckles like he was some renegade prom prince.

“We should actually do some cleaning,” I muttered, grabbing the box again before I could lose what little dignity I had left.

“Cleaning is overrated,” he called after me.

But he picked up the Oscar statues anyway.

Because he’s a menace, but he’s my menace.

***

The next day, I found him under the bleachers after lunch.

Which, honestly, wasn’t as sketchy as it sounds.

Okay, maybe it was exactly as sketchy as it sounds.

He was sprawled across a blanket like he’d planned this, sketchbook open on one knee, hoodie half-zipped like he was starring in an indie film called Bad Ideas and Good Hair.

He didn’t even look up when I dropped my bag next to him with a satisfying thud.

“You stalking me now?” he asked lazily, flipping a page.

“You’re the one who texted me ‘urgent clipboard business,’” I shot back, crossing my arms.

He smirked. “It got you here, didn’t it?”

I rolled my eyes and dropped onto the blanket beside him.

The moment my knee brushed his, his sketchbook slipped to the side.

And then we were kissing again.

Longer this time. Slower. Like we had nowhere to be, no glitter bombs to defuse, no angry best friends to placate.

His mouth tasted like cherry soda and trouble.

And I was so, so beyond caring.

When we finally pulled apart, gasping a little, my forehead resting against his, he laughed under his breath.

“We’re gonna get caught,” he said, repeating my words from the night before.

I grinned, still breathless. “Then let’s make it worth it.”

His fingers tangled in my hair, and when he kissed me again, I knew two things for sure:

We were definitely getting caught.

And I wasn’t going to regret a second of it.