(It’s a high school dance, and my muse is standing off outside waiting for their date that ditched them. How does your muse react to this?) Percival walks up to Summer with his hands folded behind his back, head ducked low. “Do you want to dance? I really like this song.”

“I, uh … ” Summer gave one last futile look around for her date, who had abandoned her over half an hour ago on the pretext of getting drinks, and ran her hands down the front of her deep green ballgown. “Yes. Of course. Let’s dance. Percival, right? Or do you prefer Percy?”