twenty
Aaliyah's POV
It starts with a text.
Leo:
be ready at 7
i'll pick you up
dress nice
My stomach goes feral instantly.
Me:
is this a date?
He replies after only five seconds.
Leo:
yeah
a real one
I fall onto my bed with a squeal.
Zaria bursts into my room like the FBI like she wasn't just watching TV in my living room peacefully.
"I HEARD YOU SCREAM—WHAT HAPPENED?!"
"HE WANTS A REAL DATE," I wail into my pillow.
Zaria gasps like I just announced a pregnancy.
"Oh my GOD— WE NEED AN OUTFIT RIGHT NOW."
?
Zaria pulls out her best weapons:
Body glitter.
Lip liner.
The dress.
Short.
Black.
Sculpted.
Clinging to every curve God blessed me with.
Low neckline—tasteful but dangerous.
Open back.
Soft slit up the thigh.
My hair is a cloud of glossy curls.
My skin glows.
My lips shine.
I look in the mirror and nearly choke.
Zaria fans herself. "You look like a PROBLEM."
"I do look illegal," I whisper.
"You look like if you breathe near Leo, he's gonna pass out."
I blush.
"Good."
?
Leo's POV
I text her I'm outside.
I'm not ready.
I planned everything.
Cleaned my apartment.
Lit candles.
Cooked the best food I know how to make.
Bought flowers.
Put music on.
Showered twice like a psycho.
Then her door opens.
And she walks out.
My heart stops.
Actually stops.
She looks unreal.
Curves soft and perfect under a black dress that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Lip gloss shining.
Curls bouncing.
Legs—
God.
I grip the steering wheel so hard I swear it cracks.
She walks toward the car and I get out because sitting suddenly feels illegal.
"Hi," she says, smiling shy.
I stare.
I can't help it.
"...You're kidding," I mutter.
"What?"
"You can't—" I shake my head. "You can't just show up looking like that."
She blushes. "Is it too much?"
I swallow hard.
"Too much?"
My voice drops.
"Aaliyah... you look perfect."
?
Aaliyah's POV
He opens the passenger door for me, hand hovering near my waist like he wants to touch me but also wants to be respectful.
When I slide in, his eyes follow every curve as I sit.
He looks away quickly.
Jaw tight.
Breath uneven.
He is down BAD.
Good.
?
Leo lives off-campus in a quiet building.
His apartment is warm.
Dim lighting.
Clean.
Masculine.
Smells like cedar, lime, and something spicy from the kitchen.
And then I see it.
The table.
A white tablecloth.
Candles.
Soft lighting.
Wine glasses.
Beautiful plates.
And at the center—
A bouquet of fresh white lilies.
My favorite.
I blink hard.
"Leo... this is..."
He runs a hand through his hair, looking nervous for the first time ever.
"I wanted tonight to be... good."
"It's more than good," I whisper. "It's beautiful."
He lets out a slow breath, relieved.
"Sit," he murmurs.
I do.
He brings over plates—
homemade enchiladas with queso fresco,
fresh rice,
warm tortillas,
a salsa he clearly made himself,
and roasted corn with chili-lime butter.
"Oh my God," I breathe.
He smirks. "My mom taught me."
"It smells amazing."
He shrugs like it's no big deal.
"It took forever."
"You cooked all day?"
His ears turn red.
"...yeah."
My heart melts.
We eat.
He watches me more than he eats.
Every time I say it's good, he hides a smile.
Every time my knee brushes his under the table, his breath catches.
Every time I lick a bit of sauce from my lip, he looks away like he might combust.
When dinner ends, he clears the plates even though I offer.
He says, "Sit. I got it."
My stomach flips.
He's soft.
Soft for me.
?
We move to the couch.
He puts on slow music—
guitars, soft drums, Spanish lyrics.
I sit.
He sits next to me.
Not too close.
But close enough.
His voice is quiet.
"I had something I wanted to ask you."
My heart stops.
His fingers twitch like he wants to take my hand but isn't sure.
"Tonight wasn't just dinner," he says softly. "I didn't want it to feel casual. Or random. Or confusing."
I swallow.
He finally looks at me—
really looks.
His eyes warm.
Dark.
Certain.
"I like you," he murmurs.
"You know that."
I nod. "I like you too."
His voice drops.
"I want to be with you. For real. If you want that."
My breath catches.
He moves closer.
"Say yes," he whispers. "Please."
God.
I whisper, "Yes."
His jaw tenses.
His eyes close for a moment.
Then he leans in—
Slow.
He kisses me once.
Soft.
Then twice, deeper.
Then he murmurs against my lips:
"You look unbelievable tonight."
His hand slides along my thigh—slow, deliberate—
and I nearly melt into him.
"You're so beautiful it actually hurts," he breathes.
My heart slams.
I whisper back, "Then do something about it."
He freezes.
Shudders.
Then his hand cups the back of my neck as he pulls me into a kiss that is nothing like the ones before it—
Hungry.
Slow.
Consuming.
Full of every emotion he's never said out loud.
He pulls me onto his lap gently, lips tracing down my jaw, my throat, my shoulder.
I feel everything—
the warmth of his hands,
the rise and fall of his chest,
the soft, deep sound he makes when my fingers slide into his hair.
"Aaliyah," he murmurs, voice thick, "you have no idea what you're doing to me."
I kiss him again.
He groans into my mouth—
His hands on my waist tighten just enough to make me gasp.
We float into his warm light and soft music.
And suddenly we're just two people slowly falling into something real.