seventeen
Aaliyah's POV
Practice ends around 8pm, the sky already dipping into blue-black, campus quiet except for crickets and the faint hum of streetlights.
Caleb jogs over to us after showering, hair damp, gym bag on his shoulder.
"You sure you don't need a ride?" he asks.
I shake my head. "Leo's walking me."
Caleb hesitates, glancing over at Leo stretching his wrists near the bench press.
Then he nods slowly.
"Text me when you're in," he says, kissing my forehead. "And if he acts weird, call me."
"He won't," I say softly.
He eyes me. Then Leo. Then me again.
"We'll talk later," he mutters.
Zaria hugs me tight. "GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR MAN."
"He's not my—"
But she's already dragging Caleb away.
And suddenly...
It's just me and Leo.
He grabs his hoodie from the bench, slings it over one shoulder, and walks toward me.
That slow, controlled walk.
Eyes on me the whole time.
Like I'm the only thing he sees.
"You ready?" he asks quietly.
My heart flips.
"Mhm."
We step outside into the warm night.
Campus lights glow gold against the pavement.
The air smells like grass and faint autumn.
He falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms brush.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Neither of us moves away.
We walk in silence for a while.
Comfortable but charged.
Too charged.
Finally, Leo says:
"What Caleb told you Malik said freshman year... I'm glad he did."
I blink up at him. "Caleb was protecting me."
"I know," he mutters. "I'm just sorry you had to hear it."
I shrug. "Better than letting him make me look stupid."
His jaw tightens. "Guys like that don't deserve to be anywhere near you."
My heart warms.
"I'm over it."
"I'm not," he says quietly.
That hits me so hard I almost stop walking.
I swallow. "Leo..."
He looks at me—really looks—eyes darker than the night around us.
"He hurt your feelings," he says, voice low. "That matters."
My chest squeezes.
I stop walking.
He stops too, facing me under the yellow streetlight.
We're closer than we should be.
He notices.
He doesn't step back.
"Aaliyah," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, "I need you to tell me something."
My heart stutters. "What?"
He takes a slow breath.
"When I'm around you..."
His throat bobs.
"...do you feel it too?"
I freeze.
"What?" I whisper.
He steps closer.
Just a little.
"Don't play dumb," he says softly.
"I'm trying to be respectful. I'm trying to be careful. But every time you look at me, I feel like—"
He stops himself, jaw tightening.
I whisper, "Like what?"
He exhales shakily.
"Like I'm losing it."
My knees go weak.
"And when you leaned in the other day," he continues, "when you let me walk you home... when you looked at my mouth like you wanted—"
He cuts himself off.
I feel my pulse in my fingertips.
"Leo..." I breathe.
He steps closer.
Close enough that his breath touches my cheek.
Close enough that I can see the light catch his eyelashes.
His voice drops into something low, deep, unsteady.
"Tell me I'm not the only one feeling this."
I don't move.
I don't talk.
I just... look up at him.
And that's all he needs.
His hand slides to my waist—gentle, careful, like he's asking permission without words.
I whisper, "You're not the only one."
His breath stutters.
"Aaliyah..."
Then he leans in—
Slow.
Like he's terrified of breaking me.
Like he's terrified of breaking himself.
Our noses brush.
His hand tightens on my waist.
My fingers curl into the front of his hoodie.
He whispers, "I've been trying not to do this."
"Then don't try," I whisper.
Something in him snaps.
Gentle but urgent—he presses his lips to mine.
Warm.
Slow.
Deep.
Hungry in a way he's trying to suppress but can't.
He kisses me like he's been waiting for it.
Like he's starving.
Like he's terrified and relieved at the same time.
His other hand slides to the back of my neck, thumb brushing my jaw, guiding me closer without forcing anything.
I melt.
I actually melt.
My fingers grip his hoodie tighter, pulling him in, and he makes this low sound in his chest—barely audible but enough to send heat shooting through me.
He deepens the kiss gently, tilting his head, lips moving against mine like he's savoring every second.
Then he pulls back just barely—
our foreheads touching, breaths tangled, both of us shaking.
He whispers, voice wrecked:
"I shouldn't have done that."
I whisper back, "Yes you should have."
His eyes squeeze shut.
"Aaliyah..."
He takes a shaky breath.
"I like you."
My heart stops.
"I like you," he repeats, softer.
"More than I should. More than I wanted to. More than makes sense."
My chest throbs.
I touch his cheek softly. "I like you too."
He opens his eyes.
And the look he gives me?
It's pure, raw emotion—wanting, fear, relief, hunger, hope.
Everything he never says out loud.
He whispers:
"Then let me try."
I blink. "Try what?"
"Us," he murmurs.
"If you want it."
I swallow hard.
His breath shudders.
He leans in again—kiss number two hovering close, slow, dangerous—
But he stops himself.
"We should get you home," he whispers, voice shaking.
I nod.
We start walking again, my hand brushing his—
and this time?
He takes it.
Quietly.
Gently.
As if it's the most natural thing in the world.
And it is.