I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 104: Just Dance
Jon's Perspective
Walking into the gymnasium was like stepping into a Pinterest fever dream. It was as if every DIY party board had thrown its contents at the walls with reckless enthusiasm. Fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling like a delicate spiderweb of tiny stars, casting a soft golden glow over everything. Streamers in school colors dangled like celebratory veins, some fluttering every time the AC kicked in. A DJ stood behind a neon-lit booth, bobbing his head with intense focus as he blended Top 40 hits with whatever genre currently dominated social media dance trends. Probably electro-something-core.
I scanned the scene, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt for the fourth time, and then turned to look at Sam. She stood beside me, illuminated by the fairy lights like something out of a movie. Her dress shimmered slightly every time she moved, and she smiled as if she belonged in this place—confident, present, effortlessly radiant.
I had to remind myself, quietly but firmly: You are not here to impress. This isn't about looking cool or pulling off perfect dance moves. You're here for her. With her. To have fun. That's it. That's the goal.
No sooner had we entered than we were ambushed—in the best possible way—by Terry and Suki. The two of them looked like they'd walked straight out of a teen drama prom episode. Terry wore a navy suit that somehow looked both classic and bold, and Suki's emerald-green dress caught the light like it had its own spotlight. If the decorations were Pinterest-inspired, these two were the cover models.
"Jon! Sam!" Terry called out, waving as if we hadn't all eaten lunch together the day before. The guy had the enthusiasm of a golden retriever in human form.
We met in a flurry of hugs, enthusiastic compliments, and the kind of loud laughter you hear when no one's embarrassed to be happy. The four of us complimented each other like it was the Met Gala and we were the only people left who understood fashion. It was dramatic. It was slightly ridiculous. It was perfect.
Eventually, as all teenagers must, we migrated to that sacred, awkward haven of every school dance: the snack table. We loitered like pros, pretending to be deeply invested in mini cupcakes and suspiciously warm soda while sneaking glances at the dance floor.
The bass thudded through the gym floor in time with my nerves. Kids were already dancing—some like pros, others like they'd been reluctantly summoned by extroverted friends. Suki had already pulled Terry into the chaos, the two of them blending into the crowd in a blur of color and movement.
I felt Sam's eyes on me before I saw her smirk. She raised an eyebrow, tilted her head toward the dance floor, and said, "Well?"
I froze. Somewhere in the background, Beyoncé was telling me to be fierce, and all I could think was, I should have brought backup.
"Come on," Sam said, flashing that confident, mischievous grin she knew could melt my brain.
I internally gave myself a pep talk, drawing from my vast archive of wise adult figures. "You've had, like, five dancing mentors at this point. One of them was a real estate agent who gave you unsolicited life advice. If he believed in you, you can do this."
I took a deep breath, nodded, and followed her onto the dance floor.
Instant regret.
The moment my feet hit the rhythm, they betrayed me. Completely. My arms flailed like they'd missed a rehearsal. My hips—oh god, my hips—began moving in a pattern best described as "panicked Morse code." I tried to find the beat, but the beat was evasive. The beat was a shapeshifter. It was somewhere over there, mocking me.
Sam burst out laughing.
But it wasn't the cruel kind of laughter. Not the "you've just made a fool of yourself and I need to distance myself socially" kind. It was warm. Genuine. The kind of laugh you give someone when they do something delightfully unexpected. Like she'd discovered I was secretly charming in an "earnest disaster" kind of way.
"This is amazing," she said through giggles, pulling me closer by the front of my shirt.
"I am absolutely butchering this," I muttered, my face hot.
"You're owning it," she countered, eyes sparkling. "Seriously. You're the most adorable train wreck I've ever seen."
Somehow, that helped. I stopped obsessing over whether I looked like I was being electrocuted mid-step. I stopped trying and just started to exist. And something incredible happened—I got… not good, but definitely less bad. My limbs began cooperating, my feet found the rhythm's general zip code, and my hands stopped doing freeform interpretive jazz. I leaned into it. We laughed the whole way through. I even attempted a spin—poorly—but she clapped like I'd just solved a national crisis.
By the time the song ended, we were both sweaty, breathless, and grinning like fools. My heart pounded from a mix of adrenaline and something softer.
Then a slow song began. A hush seemed to ripple through the dance floor, as couples instinctively paired off or found their way back to each other.
Sam looked up at me with a playful smile and arched an eyebrow. "Round two?"
"No fancy footwork?" I asked, only half-joking.
"Zero choreography," she promised, taking my hand.
This time, it was easy. We stepped into each other's arms, and everything else faded. No spotlight, no expectations, just a slow sway to the music. Her head rested on my shoulder, my arms wrapped comfortably around her. My heart finally stopped racing. For the first time all night, I felt still. Like this—this moment, this girl, this feeling—was exactly where I was supposed to be.
And then, across the room, my eyes caught the most unhinged episode in history of school dances unfolding.
Phil Dunphy, somehow, had secured a position as one of the dance chaperones. Which meant Claire was here too, very much not by choice. Phil wore a self-made "Cool Principal" name tag, and Claire wore an expression that read, "I've made a terrible mistake."
Phil, being Phil, attempted to start a dance circle. In doing so, he managed to knock over one of the DJ's speakers, causing the music to cut out briefly. Claire was off to the side lecturing a group of freshmen about the dangers of open-toe shoes in crowded gym settings.
"Are those… glow-in-the-dark crocs?" Claire muttered in horror.
"Claire," Phil said, straightening his tie like he was delivering a TED Talk, "we were the glow-in-the-dark crocs once."
She blinked. "That doesn't even mean anything."
"I know," he said solemnly. ""But it felt right."
Back on the dance floor, the slow song came to a close. Sam looked up at me with a glint in her eye and said, "Not bad for a dork."
I smirked. "So what you're saying is, I impressed you with my flawless rhythm and bold commitment to full-body flailing?"
She leaned in, kissed me gently—just once—and everything else faded. No music, no people, just her.
And for once, I wasn't overanalyzing, doubting, or pretending.
I was just… happy.
As the next song started, we didn't worry about steps or timing or anything at all. We just swayed, letting the music do what it was always meant to—bring people closer.