"It's not a rescue. It's a date."— Liana
Us. I like the sound of that.
Liana
I didn't know what to wear.
Which was stupid.
It wasn't prom.
It wasn't an interview.
It wasn't even a real date, technically.
Except… it was.
Our first.
Just me and Elias, on purpose, not because I was sick or crying or running from something.
Just… together.
Because we wanted to be.
I stared at the mirror like it was judging me.
"Too casual?" I asked no one.
Then changed my top for the fourth time.
When the knock came, my heart flew into my throat.
I opened the door.
He was standing there in jeans and a dark button-down, sleeves rolled just once, like he didn't even try and still looked like every woman's mistake and every girl's dream.
His mouth twitched. "Hi."
I blinked. "Hi."
He held out his hand.
A pause.
Then: "Ready?"
I nodded.
Slipped my fingers into his palm.
It was the first time I held his hand like that.
Not because I was scared.
Not because I was cold.
Just because I wanted to.
His thumb brushed mine once.
I didn't let go.
He drove us to a quiet little Italian place on the edge of the city—dim lighting, soft music, the kind of place where no one rushed you and the bread was always warm.
We sat across from each other, menus between us.
I couldn't stop smiling.
He looked so serious, but his knee bounced under the table.
I wanted to ask if he was nervous.
But I already knew the answer.
So I leaned forward.
"You okay?" I asked.
He looked up. "Yeah."
Then—finally—he smiled.
"I just… haven't done this in a long time."
"What? Eaten pasta?"
He huffed a quiet laugh. "No. This."
I tilted my head.
"Something that matters."
After dinner, we walked back to the truck in silence.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Like the air had weight.
We weren't talking because we didn't have anything to say.
We weren't talking because we had too much.
I glanced at him.
He glanced at me.
Then—like we rehearsed it in another life—
His hand brushed mine.
I looked down.
He didn't grab it.
Didn't pull.
Just hovered.
Like he was asking without words.
So I reached.
Linked my fingers with his.
Held on.
He squeezed gently.
Didn't let go.
And neither did I.
When he stopped in front of Alex's place, neither of us moved.
The radio was off.
Streetlamps flickered outside.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
And for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
"I had fun," I said.
His voice was low. "Me too."
I should've unbuckled.
Should've opened the door.
But instead I whispered—
"I like this."
"What?"
"This," I said, barely louder than the night. "Us. This feeling."
He didn't kiss me.
He just leaned forward.
Rested his forehead against mine.
And whispered back—
"Me too."
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