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"Hey, (y/n)!" Finch called. "I need your help."
(y/n) turned in the direction of his voice. As happy as she was to see him, she didn't really want to talk. Mr Brown had given her a 78% on an assignment she'd worked tirelessly on, and refused to listen when she explained that she had, in fact, done all that was required.
"You okay?" Finch asked as he caught up, matching his steps with hers as they walked down the hall. "You look...sad."
"Mr Brown," she said simply. "I got a seventy-six on my legal advice paper."
"That old toad," said Finch reproachfully, knowing all too well how stingy the law professor was with his marks. "Don't take it to heart. I proof-read that thing twice and I was confused both times, so you must have done it right."
(y/n) couldn't help but smile. "Thanks. What'd you need my help with?"
"Nola." Finch's face lit up as soon as he said his crush's name. "I have recently been informed that she doesn't have a date to prom yet."
"And you want to ask her." (y/n) stopped at her locker, Finch leaning against the one beside. "So what do you need me for?"
"'Cause you're a girl with decent taste. I need your help coming up with the perfect promposal."
(y/n) rolled her eyes. "Remember the good old days? When we used to sit outside and scoff at the couples writing 'prom?' on the roofs of their cars and doing flamboyant promposals with balloons just for a good Instagram photo-op?"
"Is that a no?" Finch pouted dramatically. "C'mon, (y/n)."
Normally, (y/n) would tease Finch for being such a hopeless romantic. She'd ruffle his hair and call him lover boy, but still gather intel on Nola in search of things she and Finch would have in common. But around Christmas, (y/n) noticed that she had started to resent Nola for apparently no reason. As Finch continued to pine for the girl who'd never notice him, (y/n) realized she wished he was pining for her.
"I'm in," (y/n) found herself saying.
Finch grinned widely. "You're the best."
"I know." (y/n) flashed him a smile as she closed her locker, and the two headed for the closest staircase.
Finch could hardly wait. He sat at his kitchen table, notebook and pens in front of him. This had to be perfect. His promposal should be so flawless, so breathtaking, so unbelievably romantic, that Nola couldn't possibly say no. He was incredibly relieved when (y/n) agreed to help; he knew he couldn't do this without her. The doorbell rang.
"Speak of the devil," Finch muttered, hurrying to the door. He opened to see (y/n) standing on the front step, already wiping her knock-off Vans on the worn-down welcome mat his mother refused to get rid of.
"Hey," said (y/n), moving past him and inside. "Sorry I'm late, but I did bring you a croissant."
"Apology accepted." Finch took the to-go bag (y/n) handed him as they sat at the table. "Did I thank you for helping me yet?"
"In about thirteen texts, but I think I can stomach another."
"Thanks so much."
"I'm a blessing, I know." She tucked her hair behind her ears and pulled the notebook in front of her, clicking a pen. "Alright. Let's start by brainstorming. Hit me."
"Balloons—"
"Absolutely not." (y/n) shook her head insistently. "Sorry, balloons are where I draw the line."
"—are definitely out," Finch finished, rolling his eyes. "C'mon, have a little faith."
"Sorry, sorry." (y/n) grinned sheepishly. "Alright, I'll stop interrupting. Go."
"Idea numero uno: I spell out 'prom?' in Starburst on the inside of my locker door, and then show it to her.""Uh-huh...and how do you get her to your locker without being creepy?"
"With my natural good looks and charm, of course," Finch replied, fixing his hair theatrically.
"Oh, right, of course." (y/n) rolled her eyes, but Finch caught the hint of a smile on her face. "Forgot about that."
"Idea two, I write an acrostic poem using her first and last names—"
"I'm gonna stop you there." (y/n) crossed out the first few words she'd started writing. "That's weird. Don't do that."
"Acrostic poems are romantic."
"Acrostic poems are cheesy," (y/n) argued, "and you, Finch Cortez, are not cheesy. Next idea."
Finch ran a hand through his hair. (y/n) was taking this more seriously than he thought she would, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He thought they would goof off, throwing around stupid ideas that would only work in the cheesiest rom-coms, eventually landing on the single, perfect idea that guaranteed success. As (y/n) started to write down her own ideas, Finch realized how good her promposals were. She had thought them through, thought of every detail, to the point where there was no way they could fail. (y/n) wanted a promposal, Finch realized, and she didn't think she'd get one. That's why she was helping him with his: she wanted his promposal to Nola to be as wonderful as she would want her own to be.
"I can't believe you're getting these from the dollar store." (y/n) grabbed another bag of Starburst from the shelf.
"I can't believe you're letting me go through with this," Finch replied, pushing the cart behind her. "I recall you saying this was creepy."
"I never said it was creepy," (y/n) pointed out, "I wanted to know how you planned to pull it off without coming across as creepy. Berry or tropical?"
"Tropical." Finch reached for the tropical bag. "Berry flavours are disgusting."
"Amen." She pushed his hand out of the way and reached for the bag herself, lifting onto the tips of her toes.
"Need any help?" Finch teased, leaning forwards on the cart.
"None." (y/n) never asked for help from Finch if she could avoid it. She wasn't sure why, but it was something she'd always done. Maybe she felt the need to prove herself, prove that she was independent, prove that she didn't need a man to do things for her. Finch had always respected that, but also knew to step in when she really did need help, or at least offer.
"Clock's ticking." Finch reached over (y/n)'s head with ease and pulled the bag from its hook, tossing it into the cart. "Dwarf."
"Beanpole," (y/n) retorted, walking backwards down the aisle.
"Hobbit."
"Stick-boy."
"Sauce," said Finch, pulling (y/n) to the side so she wouldn't collide with a pyramid of marinara-filled jars.
(y/n)'s senses went into overdrive as she suddenly grew aware of Finch's long fingers wrapped around her wrist, her hand on his waist, her front pressed against his, how lost she became in the depths of his eyes, how her heart hammered at a mile a minute and drowned out any possibility of finding out if Finch's heart was doing the same.
"Never heard that one before," she managed, stepping away. They headed for the check-out, eventually leaving the store with a plastic bag full of Starbursts. (y/n) was careful not to walk too close to Finch as they made their way to his mom’s Corolla. She turned on the car radio as soon as they pulled out of the parking lot, distracting herself from the feelings that threatened to resurface.
As Finch carefully taped the Starbursts inside his locker, he imagined how his promposal would unfold. He had Biology with Nola second period; he and (y/n) sat behind her. After class, he’d ask her back to his locker, suave and not-at-all-creepy. He couldn’t scare her away.
But as he started on the ‘O’, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to (y/n)’s smile when he cheered her up after a bad mark, or how seriously she took brainstorming promposal ideas, or how perfectly her body fit against his as he reached over her for the bag of Starbursts. He thought of the dress she’d sent him a picture of, asking his opinion on whether or not it was good enough for prom. He remembered how they mocked every promposal they witnessed since first year, and how she didn’t hesitate to help him come up with the perfect one for Nola.
Nola Prince, who had never given him the time of day, who forced him to do the entire final History project by himself the year before, who laughed when he asked her out for coffee, who rolled her eyes when he asked what day it was.
(y/n) had never made him feel as inferior as Nola had. (y/n) held Finch on some kind of pedestal he never felt he deserved, and he held her on one so much higher than he ever thought possible.
And that’s when it hit him: he had been preparing to ask the wrong girl.
The bell signalling the end of second period finally rang, and students wasted no time in rushing out of the classroom. (y/n) stapled her lab papers together and handed them in, surprised that Finch was still packing his bag when she got back to their table.
“Nola just left,” she told him, “you’d better hurry if you want to ask her.”
“Yeah, totally.” Finch matched his steps with hers as they left the class, despite his natural strides being almost twice the size of hers. “Could you actually come to my locker first, though?”
(y/n) raised an eyebrow. “Sure.” She had no reason not to: she didn’t have any other lunch plans, and he probably wanted her to film the promposal and send it to him later.
As they reached his locker, (y/n) noticed how flushed Finch’s cheeks were, and how he tapped his foot anxiously as he twisted the lock to his combination.
“You okay?” She asked.
“Yeah.” He swung the door open grandly, complete with uncertain jazz hands.
(y/n) pushed his hands down. “Lose the jazz hands. Nola’s not a theatre kid.”
“I know, and…” Finch cleared his throat and looked down at his hands, still clasped in hers. “I’m not asking Nola to prom.”
“What?” (y/n), suddenly reminded that she was still holding his hands, pulled away. “Why not?”
“Because I realized that I didn’t want her to be the one I got matching corsages with.”
“Actually, men have boutonnieres…”
“(y/n), please.” Finch rolled his eyes. “This is a moment.”
“Sorry. Continue."
He rubbed the back of his neck, still unable to make eye-contact. “I don’t want to take Nola to prom ‘cause...I want to take you.”
It took a few moments for (y/n) to process what he’d said. “Come again?”
Finch pulled one of the Starbursts from his locker door and offered it to (y/n). “I’ve been chasing the wrong girl, (y/n). Honestly, I’ve felt like it for awhile, but I just chalked it up to nerves. It’s never been about Nola. It’s been about you. You’re my best friend and, honestly, I want to be something more. So...will you be my date to prom?”
(y/n) smiled as she took the Starburst from Finch and unwrapped it, popping it into her mouth. “Took you long enough to come around.”
Finch pulled (y/n) into a hug, and she pressed her cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt. “Is that a yes?”
“Well, I don’t see any balloons, so...yes.”
Finch smiled to himself as he hugged (y/n) tighter. He looked down the hall to see Nola, leaning against her locker and watching him and (y/n) with a judgemental look on her face. He watched as she rolled her eyes and turned to tell her friend something. As he and (y/n) pulled apart, he wondered how he could ever have feelings for Nola.
When prom night finally rolled around, Finch waited anxiously downstairs with her parents. He kept tugging at his cuffs and adjusting his tie. When (y/n) finally came down the stairs, wearing the dress she had sent Finch a photo of so many months before, he forgot everything he was nervous about.
The promposal was perfect, and so was she, and Finch had finally fallen for the right girl.