The bathroom was still fogged from the shower, the mirror clouded over like it was deliberately avoiding eye contact with her.
Kara wiped a clear streak through the steam with the sleeve of her hoodie—and froze.
There was a dress laid out neatly on the closed toilet lid.
Not folded lazily. Not tossed there as an afterthought. Laid out. Carefully. Like it mattered.
Her stomach dropped.
"Why is there a dress?" she muttered, as if the empty bathroom might answer her.
She stepped closer, bare feet cold against the tile, and lifted it slowly. The fabric was soft—way too soft for anything she'd ever owned.
Deep midnight blue, almost black unless the light hit it just right.
The material flowed instead of clung, light and elegant without screaming look at me.
Thin straps. A fitted bodice that flared just slightly at the waist, long enough to brush mid-calf. Simple. Clean.
This is rich-people witchcraft, she decided.
She stared at it for a long moment, chewing on her lip.
"I am absolutely going to look stupid in this," she whispered.
She changed anyway.
The dress slipped over her head easily, settling against her body like it had been waiting for her specifically—which pissed her off a little. She turned sideways, then back, inspecting herself with narrowed eyes.
…Okay. I'm sorry but do I look HOT or STUNNING!?
Her shoulders looked softer. Her waist more defined. Her scars were hidden, the fabric skimming over her instead of clinging.
She didn't look like she was trying. Which somehow made it worse.
She was still staring at herself when there was a gentle knock on the door.
"Kara, sweetheart?" a warm voice called.
"May I come in?"
Kara nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Yes—! I mean—okay—!"
The door opened, and Adam's mom stepped in with a soft smile already on her face.
She took one look at Kara and stopped.
"Oh," she breathed. "Well. That answers that."
Kara's face immediately went nuclear.
"I—I'm so sorry," she blurted, eyes dropping to the floor like it had personally offended her.
"I didn't know it was yours, I swear, I can take it off right now, I wasn't trying to—"
The woman laughed. Not sharply. Not mockingly. A genuine, light laugh that cut through Kara's panic like warm air.
"Kara," she said gently, stepping closer. "Breathe."
Kara inhaled. Exhaled. Still panicking, but quieter.
"That dress," Adam's mom said, smiling fondly, "used to be mine. Years ago. I thought it might suit you."
"I shouldn't be wearing it," Kara muttered. "It's… important. Probably. Like heirloom-important or something."
"Oh honey," she waved a hand. "I wore that dress to a company dinner and spilled red wine on it within twenty minutes. The sentiment survived. The carpet didn't."
Kara blinked. "…Oh."
She finally looked up.
Adam's mom was still smiling, eyes soft, studying her like she was already proud of something Kara didn't think she'd earned.
"You look beautiful," she said simply.
Kara stiffened.
"I don't— I mean— I'm not—"
"I know," the woman said kindly. "That's why it counts."
Before Kara could overthink that into a crisis, she was gently turned toward the counter.
"Sit," Adam's mom instructed. "I'm not letting you go out there with damp hair and zero makeup while my son stares at you like an idiot."
"I already do that," Kara muttered.
"Exactly. We're upgrading."
What followed was twenty straight minutes of Kara sitting as still as a terrified animal while someone else touched her hair with purpose. She was tense the entire time—shoulders tight, fingers clenched in her lap—but she didn't pull away. She just… endured.
Quietly.
Soft makeup. Nothing heavy. A little color. Enough to make her eyes stand out without turning her into someone else.
When Adam's mom stepped back and smiled at her reflection, Kara didn't recognize the girl in the mirror.
She looked… nice. Not worn out.
"That'll do," the woman said gently. "Come on. Let's not keep the boys waiting."
Kara's heart dropped straight into her shoes.
The moment she stepped into the hallway, Adam's voice carried from downstairs.
"Oh my God, what took you so lo—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Dead. Stopped.
Kara halted instantly.
"…Don't," she warned, already sweating. "Do not do that cringe-ass rom-com thing where the girl stands on the stairs and the guy forgets how to breathe. I will actually leave."
Adam was staring at her like his brain had blue-screened.
"…Wow," he said finally.
She narrowed her eyes. "That was a warning."
He blinked, then laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Sorry. I just—yeah. You look… wow."
She huffed, mortified. "Stop staring like that."
Before things could get worse, Richard's voice cut in from the living room.
"Adam," his father said sharply. "Stand up straight."
Adam snapped upright immediately.
"And you," Richard continued, turning to Kara with a measured look, "look very nice."
"Thank you, sir," Kara said automatically, posture stiff.
Richard nodded once. "Be a gentleman," he told Adam. "Treat her with respect. And if you don't—"
"I will," Adam said quickly. "I swear."
Richard grunted. "Good."
Alfred appeared like he'd been summoned by the word departure.
"The car is ready," he said smoothly.
He opened the door for them, gesturing toward the backseat.
Kara paused.
"…Is the butler driving us."
"Yes," Adam said like this was normal. "Unless you have a driving license."
"This is insane. Who are we the fucking Royal Family?"
"Yes," Adam said in a cheerfully mocking voice.
Kara frowned.
The ride was quiet—soft leather, low music, city lights streaking past the windows.
When they pulled up to the restaurant, Kara craned her neck.
The sign glowed elegantly above the entrance.
L'Étoile Noire
She swallowed.
"Holy shit."
Adam smirked. "Don't tell me you're about to say, 'Oh no, this is way too expensive, let's go eat burgers instead.'"
She immediately smacked the back of his head.
"Fuck no," she said. "I'm not missing out on this shit. But if they serve those tiny-ass plates with three peas and vibes, I'm stealing bread."
He laughed, opening the door for her.
"Ready?"
She squared her shoulders.
"Yeah," she said. "Let's go."
They stepped inside together.
And the door closed behind them.