He was so sure of himself, writing this before even asking me. So perfectly, ridiculously Leo.
I pull out my phone and respond to his note.
Tori, 10:52 a.m.: Dear BF, I would love to come for dinner tonight. Will Lois be joining us? Warmly, GF
His reply comes almost instantly.
Leo, 10:52 a.m.: No.
I laugh and type back.
Tori, 10:52 a.m.: But why not? She’s my favorite!
Leo, 10:53 a.m.: She’s seen me naked once. She will not see me nakedtwice.
My core clenches at the thought of the two of us, together, finally.
Before I get too lost in my thoughts, I take his note and refold it, tucking it into my planner alongside the handwritten incident report from a few months back. Proof of how far we’ve come—then and now.
Mondays are supposed to drag, supposed to weigh heavy with dread and preemptive exhaustion for the week ahead.
But this one? This one feels like the start of everything wonderful.
Leo
The knock comes right at seven.
I’m already standing in the entryway when it lands—because of course I am. I’ve checked the mirror three times, re-set the plates twice, and reheated the food once even though it didn’t need it.
For a man who usually wings it, I’ve suddenly become incredibly meticulous. Every detail feels like it matters tonight, like I need to get this right.
I open the door and forget how to breathe.
She’s there. Cheeks pink from the cold, hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, peacoat hanging open like she’s already halfway in.
Tori is wearing a wrap shirt tied at her waist, dark jeans that look like they were sewn specifically to test my self-control, and boots with a modest heel that somehow make her legs look a mile long.
But it’s her smile that destroys me. That familiar, radiant smile—the one that never fails to level me.
“Hi,” she says, voice warm, easy, as if we didn’t spend allweekend in that uncertain in-between space, texting through the wreckage of Saturday.
“Hi,” I say back, and my voice cracks like a thirteen-year-old boy whose hormones haven’t figured themselves out yet.
I open the door wider, letting her step inside, and that’s when I notice the bag in her hand.
Small. Zipped. Unmistakably overnight size.
My grin comes without permission. I lean back against the door as I close it, arms folded for exactly one second before I can’t resist.
“I see you brought an overnight bag. How very presumptuous.”
Her eyes flash, just enough heat to make my chest thrum, and she swats me in the chest.
“Shut up.”
I don’t. Not really. I pluck the bag from her hand like it weighs nothing, set it aside, and slide my other arm around her waist. I pull her against me, and when her body lines up with mine it’s like puzzle pieces finding their way home.
I kiss her—my girlfriend. My lips against hers, quick, deliberate, claiming. Not too long, not too deep, just enough to taste her. Enough to remind myself she’s real, and she’s here, and she. chose. me.
