The first official date.

You picked her up right outside the bar—she wasn’t working, but she still looked like sin wrapped in warm intentions. A soft sundress hugged her curves, and her long black hair swayed like it had its own gravitational pull.

You handed her a flower. Nothing fancy. Just a small blue one from the stand nearby.

And she froze.

Red. Immediate. Like someone had flicked on the blush switch and snapped the dial off.

“This… is for me?” she whispered, like flowers weren’t legal for women who made hearts do gymnastics.

”… it’s so pretty,” she murmured, holding it like it might dissolve in her hand. Then she laughed—nervously—and mumbled, ”So are you.”

Strike one. She turned even redder.

Dinner was worse. Or better, depending on how much her flustered cuteness fueled your soul.

She tried to sip water and nearly choked when your fingers brushed hers. Tried to compliment your outfit and forgot how sentences worked halfway through. Tried to look you in the eye and failed every time.