It's the morning after the kitchen slow dance, and I wake up in my own bed, fully clothed, makeup smudged, and with exactly one brain cell functioning—and that brain cell is screaming: YOU KISSED HIM.
Not just a kiss. The kiss. The kind that says things like stay and try and maybe we could actually make this work. It was soft. It was careful. It was terrifying in the best possible way.
And now I have absolutely no idea what to do next.
Should I text him?
Do I wait for him to text?
What is the acceptable post-kiss cool-down period before one of us inevitably ruins it by saying something too sincere?
I spend the next twenty minutes staring at my phone like it just confessed it had feelings.
And then—it buzzes.
Evan: "I have zero regrets about last night. Also, I still have half a wheel of that brie. Breakfast?"
Cue internal screaming.
I type back quickly.
Me: "Yes to brie. Yes to breakfast. Still deciding how I feel about soft jazz-induced emotional honesty, though."
Evan: "Too late. You're emotionally compromised."
---
An hour later, I'm back at Evan's apartment, barefoot in his kitchen again, spreading fig jam on toast like it's a personality trait.
He's humming. Humming.
I sit down with my plate and blurt, "Okay, wait. Are we... dating now?"
He doesn't look surprised. Just thoughtful.
"I'd like to be," he says, buttering his toast. "But only if you want to."
I stare at my jam. "I think I do. But I'm also deeply chaotic and have commitment issues and a tendency to overthink texts until they turn into Shakespearean tragedies."
"That's okay," he says. "I take pretty good notes."
I smile. "You're really not going to let me overcomplicate this, are you?"
"Nope. Sorry. Emotional safety and healthy communication only."
"I don't know how to function in this ecosystem."
"You'll adapt."
We grin at each other like we're both a little relieved, a little surprised, and a lot not ready to admit just how far we've already fallen.
Then—there's a knock at the door.
Evan frowns. "I wasn't expecting anyone."
He opens it.
And there she is.
His mom.
Holding a Tupperware container and a purse that could double as a deadly weapon.
She freezes when she sees me.
I freeze when I realize I'm wearing one of Evan's hoodies and no bra.
And Evan?
Evan just says, "Uh. Mom. This is... Leila."
His mom gives me a once-over that could classify as a federal background check.
"Well," she says coolly. "You're not what I expected."
I grin awkwardly. "That's fair. Neither am I."
---