7
That glitter. After twenty minutes in the bathroom, the stuff was still everywhere: sink, floor, probably embedded in Emily’s DNA. Her ankle screamed from the spectacular trip earlier. Nothing says ‘date me’ like going A over T in front of thousands of people.
She was already late. It was past seven and she was still in a towel. Emily wrestled herself into the Bettina Liano skinny jeans that seemed so crucial at the time, hopping on her good foot, before the infamous lie-on-bed-and-suck-in routine required for jeans with that ultra-low rise.
And why? Because a hot muso had said he wanted to see her again. And she was excited to see him.
Emily ditched the idea of heels immediately.
Her ankle wasn’t having it. She grabbed a pair of beaten ballet flats instead.
Her cropped leather jacket was tight across the shoulders, but she always told herself it just needed to warm up to her body.
Paired with the jeans it was the ultimate confidence-boosting outfit.
Heartstrings was close by. A little wine bar, where the owners knew her well enough to fake emergency calls when dates went south. It was her favourite. They’d once saved her from a guy who performed (performed!) his entire screenplay. With voices.
She hovered outside, pretending to check her phone. What if he’d bailed? What if there was already a Vine—the latest social platform—of her falling arse-over-tit off the Eurofest stage? He must have seen her through the window, because suddenly he was there.
Then her ankle gave out. Right at the Heartstrings entrance.
He caught her elbow. Steady. Warm.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
Black T-shirt this time. He had that half-smile that made her want to simultaneously kiss him and push him into traffic.
‘Yep,’ she said, way too fast. Then walked straight into the doorframe. ‘Ow. Shit. Sorry.’
She apologised. To the door.
His hand lingered on her elbow for a second, like he wasn’t sure whether to let go. Then he did, fingers flexing once at his side as they went in.
He’d already claimed a corner spot at the bar, like he’d been coming there for years instead of, what, twenty minutes?
‘You are late,’ he teased.
‘I had glitter everywhere. Everywhere. Plus, I have apparent structural instability in my joints.’
Then he reached over and brushed a speck of glitter off her cheek. The movement was quick, but his hand hesitated halfway back, suspended between them before dropping to the bar. Like he’d surprised himself.
‘You missed a sparkle.’
Emily’s brain short-circuited. Full system failure. And he kept smiling, though his fingers had found the edge of his beer label, and he picked at it in a distinctive rhythm. Three little tears. Pause. Three more.
Dan, the owner, appeared like a bearded angel, directing them to the courtyard. Her usual corner booth, the one with the heater and extra blankets for cold nights. He brought another when he saw her limp, plus an icepack.
‘Here,’ Leo said quietly, already reaching for her ankle from beside her.
His fingers were gentle as he lifted her foot, sliding her ballet flat off with careful precision.
He folded the spare blanket into a makeshift pillow and placed it on the chair opposite her, then positioned the icepack over what was already an impressive bruise.
His fingers lingered for just a moment, adjusting the icepack. The touch was barely there but somehow Emily felt it everywhere. That careful attention mixed with something else that made her stomach flip despite the throbbing pain.
Now with her foot on the only chair, he looked at it, then at her. ‘Do you mind if I…’ He gestured to the space in the booth beside her.
She shifted over, probably too quickly. He slid in next to her, pulling the blanket over both their laps. Their knees touched under that narrow table. The courtyard heater hummed beside them, mixing with the distant tram bells and someone’s laughter from the main bar.
A cheese board arrived. Emily grabbed an olive automatically, then grimaced as she chewed.
‘I always forget I don’t actually like these,’ she muttered.
‘Then why pick it up?’
‘Because on dates I pretend I’m the kind of person who enjoys things like olives and kombucha.’ The words tumbled out before she could stop them. Fuck. Why did she just admit that?
He laughed. ‘I will remember that: avoid fermented anything when trying to impress Emily.’
The wine helped. His arm was soon behind her on the back of the bench, present but careful. A possibility, moments of contact that felt ridiculous and vital at the same time.
She leaned in a little. ‘I don’t usually get this nervous on dates.’
‘You do not seem overly nervous,’ he said, watching her.
‘Well, I am. You’re…a bit much.’
His smile shifted, softer now. ‘So are you.’ He paused just long enough for Emily to catch her breath. ‘In the best way.’
Emily traced her finger down the stem of her glass, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t ‘please kiss me right now’.
That’s when Dan appeared again, checking on them with that knowing bartender look. He glanced between them, took in their body language, the way they’d unconsciously angled towards each other.
‘He’s a good one,’ Dan said to her, casual but pointed. ‘Better than the last guy who kept talking about cryptocurrency.’ He nodded towards Leo. ‘This one helped me carry in a wine delivery while you were running late. Didn’t have to. Just rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a case.’
Leo shifted in his seat, suddenly interested in his beer coaster.
‘Don’t screw it up, Red,’ Dan added with a wink.
Emily rolled her eyes, muttered something about unsolicited advice. Dan chuckled, wiped down their already-clean table. But Dan had better instincts than she did.
The next question came out of nowhere, surprising even her. ‘What were you like at ten?’ she asked Leo.
She watched it land on him, saw the way he blinked, like she’d asked something in a language he’d forgotten he spoke.
Leo leaned back, thoughtful. ‘Quiet. Shy. Obsessed with making things sound better than they were.’
‘Like music?’
He nodded. ‘Like music.’
‘That tracks,’ Emily said softly.
He looked at her, eyes warm but distant. ‘What about you? At ten?’
‘Radio obsessed,’ she said immediately. ‘I would even record the Weekly Top 40 on Sunday nights with my tape deck, finger hovering over the pause button, praying Rick Dees, the countdown host, wouldn’t talk over the start of the songs so I could practise doing it myself.’
He laughed, and something about the sound made her chest tight. ‘That paints a very clear picture of young Emily, she would be proud to be you.’
Emily nudged her shoulder against his. ‘Yeah, well. Being on the radio is a long way from being on the promo team. We can’t all grow up to be rockstars doing the things we loved as kids.’
His expression shifted. ‘It did not really happen in that way.’
Emily went still.
He looked past her at the vine-covered wall. His voice dropped. ‘My mum died when I was twelve. I stopped playing music for a long time. I did not play again until I was an adult.’
‘Leo…’
He shook his head. ‘It is okay. It has been a long time. But it changed things. My dad, he’—he paused—‘let us just say we do not talk about feelings. Or art. Music. Or anything that makes sense.’
He stopped there.
Emily touched his foot with her good one under the table, not knowing what else to do. ‘Well, if it helps, you’re doing a surprisingly good job at this feelings-adjacent conversation.’
‘You make it easy,’ he said. Then he looked away, as if the admission cost him something.
The air between them shifted. He kept almost touching her shoulder, then pulling back.
‘Do you ever stop thinking?’ he asked.
‘Never. It’s exhausting.’
‘I kind of like it. How fast your mind moves.’
‘Most men find it…overwhelming.’
‘They are idiots.’
She wanted to kiss him. Wanted it with a certainty that terrified her.
Dan reappeared. ‘Don’t make me play Semisonic, last drinks was called half an hour ago.’ Time had done that thing where three hours felt like thirty minutes. Or maybe it was three minutes that felt like hours.
Leo walked her home. The streets were empty except for the occasional tram rattling past.
‘Do you always walk girls home on a first date?’ Emily asked, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
‘Only the ones who nearly concuss themselves on arrival.’
Outside her door, under that harsh porch light that made everyone look terrible but somehow made him look better, she fumbled with her keys like she’d never seen keys before.
He moved closer, then stopped. ‘May I…’ He cleared his throat, tried again. ‘I would really like to kiss you.’
She nodded. Words wouldn’t come.
The kiss started carefully. But when Emily pressed closer, when her hand found the hem of his shirt, something shifted. His hand cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. Hers grazed the warm skin just above his belt, and she felt him inhale sharply against her mouth.
When they broke apart, the world felt different. Rearranged. He stayed close, forehead resting against hers, both of them just breathing. She could feel the slight tremor in his hand where it still held her face.
‘Sweet dreams, Emily,’ he said, voice rougher now. Then, pulling back slightly, ‘May I pick you up at eight tomorrow morning?’
‘Well, that depends.’
That grin, though his eyes stayed serious. ‘To be my guide in this beautiful city.’ He paused, almost shyly. ‘If you will have me.’
That’s when she noticed the car. A sleek black BMW. Tinted windows. A driver holding the door open.
Not a taxi. Not one of those new ride apps.
Had it been there the whole time? Following them?
Leo slid into the car. Emily watched for him to glance at her again. He didn’t.
The BMW pulled away, with that expensive-engine purr. And the red taillights disappeared around the corner, taking him away. For now.
Inside, Emily’s house was dark and quiet. She leaned against the closed door, jacket still on, keys pressing into her palm. Her lips still tingled from the kiss. Her ankle throbbed like hell. Her head was spinning.