8. Ellie
ELLIE
I rush home after work to get ready for our date. What should I even wear? He is clear that it’s a date, so it sets certain expectations for the night.
I rummage through my closet, pulling out and discarding outfit after outfit. Too casual. Too formal. Too desperate. Too indifferent. Nothing feels right for tonight.
I finally settle on my favorite black dress—comfortable enough that I won’t be fidgeting all night, but nice enough to show I made an effort. I pair it with the silver earrings my sister gave me for my birthday last year and my reliable ankle boots.
Standing in front of the mirror, I take a deep breath. My reflection stares back, a mixture of excitement and nervousness visible in my eyes.
What if the conversation falls flat? No, don’t do that. There’s a spark. My mind goes back to the dance at my sister’s party.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Julian: Looking forward to tonight. Getting ready now.
My stomach flutters. This is really happening.
Me: Me too! See you soon
I apply a final touch of lipstick, grab my purse, and head for the door. Whatever happens tonight—awkward silences, spilled drinks, or maybe, just maybe, the start of something wonderful—at least I’m putting myself out there again. And right now, that feels like enough of a victory.
I step out onto my porch and find Julian stands at the gate.
Good god! He has a black button-down shirt on but the sleeves are rolled up a bit, showing off his tattoos.
He smiles when he sees me, and there’s a subtle shift in his posture—a straightening of his shoulders, a momentary pause that tells me he likes what he sees.
His eyes meet mine, warm and appreciative.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling shy despite our previous interactions.
“Hi yourself,” he replies, his voice deep and steady. “You look beautiful.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “I try.” He gestures toward his truck parked at the curb. “Ready?”
As we walk, his hand brushes against mine—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not.
He opens the passenger door for me, and as I slide in, I catch a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy and subtle.
When he walks around to the driver’s side, I take a quick breath to steady myself.
This feels different from other first dates.
There’s something comfortable yet thrilling about being with Julian, like we’ve known each other much longer than we actually have.
As he starts the truck, he glances over at me with a half-smile that makes my heart skip. “How was work today?”
“Busy. End-of-month inventory always make everyone a little crazy. You?”
“Had a client meeting that ran long. Almost thought I’d have to push back our plans.” He pauses at a red light and turns to face me fully. “I’m glad I didn’t have to.”
Those eyes. They’re so intent when they focus on me, like I’m the only person in his world at that moment. The light changes and he returns his attention to the road, but I feel the lingering warmth of his gaze.
We pull up to a small restaurant tucked between two larger buildings. True to Julian’s description, fairy lights twinkle in the trees of a charming courtyard visible through wrought-iron gates. It’s perfect—intimate without being overwhelming for a first date.
As we walk from the truck to the entrance, Julian’s hand finds the small of my back, a gentle pressure that guides me forward - both protective and possessive in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
The hostess leads us to a corner table in the courtyard, partially secluded by potted plants. Julian pulls out my chair, and when our eyes meet as I sit down, I see something flash in his—a momentary intensity that suggests he’s thinking about more than just dinner conversation.
“Wine?” he asks, opening the menu.
“Yes, please,” I reply, grateful for something to calm my nerves.
When the waiter arrives, Julian orders a bottle of red without hesitation, then looks to me. “Trust me?” he asks with a slight smile.
I nod, realizing that I do, perhaps more than makes sense for how long we’ve known each other. There’s something about him that feels safe.
As the evening unfolds, we trade stories about work disasters, family holidays gone wrong, and books we’ve loved. Julian is an attentive listener, leaning forward slightly when I speak, asking questions that show he’s truly interested in my answers.
By dessert—a chocolate something-or-other that we agree to head back to my place for another drink. He didn’t have anything to drink since he’s driving.
The drive back to my place is filled with an occasional comment about the town lights as we pass through downtown. His hand rests on the gear shift, and once or twice his fingers brush against my knee.
Stepping into my house, I’m suddenly aware of how it might look through his eyes—the stack of novels on the coffee table, the half-finished painting propped against the wall, the throw blanket haphazardly folded on the couch.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, gesturing toward the living room. “I’ll grab some drinks. What would you like?”
Julian moves into the space with casual confidence, glancing around with interest rather than judgment. “Whatever you’re having is fine,” he says, stopping to examine the painting. “Did you do this?”
I nod, feeling oddly vulnerable. “It’s still a work in progress.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes me believe him. “You didn’t mention you were an artist.”
“More of a hobbyist,” I clarify, heading to the kitchen. “Nothing serious.”
I pull two glasses from the cabinet, grateful for the moment to collect myself. The evening has gone better than I could have hoped, but now that we’re alone in my place, the energy has shifted. The possibility of what might happen hangs in the air between us.
When I return with two glasses of wine, Julian has settled on the couch, his arm stretched along the back in a way that seems to be waiting for me to fill the space beside him. I do, keeping a respectable distance that still feels intimate.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. “To first dates that don’t suck.”
I laugh, the tension easing slightly. “The bar was that low, huh?”
“Not at all,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “The bar was actually pretty high. But you cleared it easily.”
The compliment warms me more than the wine. We talk more, the conversation deepening as we relax into this new, private setting.
“Can I tell you something?”
I nod, suddenly unable to form words with him this close.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you gardening when I moved in.” His hand moves to cup my cheek, thumb gently tracing my lower lip.
The moment stretches between us, filled with anticipation. Then slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, he leans in. His lips meet mine with surprising gentleness at first, a question more than a demand.
I answer by leaning into the kiss, my free hand finding its way to his shoulder.
What starts as tentative quickly deepens, his arm wrapping around my waist to pull me closer.
The wine glass in my hand tilts dangerously, and I break away with a breathless laugh to set it on the coffee table.
Julian does the same, his eyes never leaving mine.
When he reaches for me again, there’s no hesitation. His kiss is more confident now, exploring, his hand sliding into my hair. I melt against him, every nerve ending alive with sensation. My fingers trace the edge of his collar before venturing to the buttons of his shirt.
“Is this okay?” I whisper against his lips.
“More than okay,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire.
His hands are warm against my skin as they find the zipper of my dress, pausing there in silent question. I nod, and the slow drag of the zipper sends shivers down my spine. The dress loosens around my shoulders, and Julian’s lips follow the newly exposed skin trailing along my collarbone.
“You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he says, his breath hot against my neck.
I tilt my head back, giving him better access. “Tell me.”
“Since that first day,” he admits between kisses. “When you waved at me from your garden. You looked so beautiful in the sunlight.”
His honesty disarms me. I pull back slightly to look at him, finding his eyes dark with want but also something softer, more vulnerable.
“I noticed you too,” I confess. “I may have deliberately spent more time outside after you moved in.”
He laughs, his hands settling at my waist. “Really?”
“Really.”
Our next kiss is different—slower, deeper. My dress slips further, and Julian’s shirt begins to come undone beneath my fingers. There’s a moment where we could turn back, keep this night in the realm of a successful first date with the promise of more to come.
But when he looks at me, a question in his eyes, I make my decision. I stand, letting my dress fall to the floor, and hold out my hand to him.
“Bedroom’s this way,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice despite the hammering of my heart.
Julian takes my hand, rising to follow. As we move through the dim hallway, I feel none of the awkwardness that usually accompanies first-time intimacy. Instead, there’s an almost peaceful certainty, as if this was always going to happen—not just tonight, but from the moment he moved in next door.
In the soft light of my bedroom, Julian pulls me close again, his hands tracing reverent patterns across my skin. “You’re sure?” he asks, his forehead resting against mine.
In answer, I guide his hand to the clasp of my bra. “I’m sure.”
Julian’s tattoos tell stories beneath my fingertips—each one with meaning as he whispers against my skin between kisses. His hands are confident but considerate. Finding places I didn’t know could make me gasp.