"It's your prom and your tickets: it would be your fault." Not that he's worried: he's never worried. Either realistically dreading oncoming strife, or secure in the knowledge that nothing is going to happen.

Nothing isn't quite what he feels for the rest of the night, but it's not an immediate sense, and it isn't dread. Looking at the line of suits and short dresses, he finds justification for the sequins. It isn't a cheap jacket by his means, but it doesn't suffer from the flair, and it comes off intentional.

"Where the fuck else am I going to wear this," he asks, squeezing the hand in his and yanking Ty toward the line.