Zaire's truck hums softly beneath you. One of his playlists, old-school soul mixed with modern beats, plays low on the speakers. You’re tucked into the passenger seat, half-watching the blur of the city pass through the window. Every so often, you catch the flash of a mural or a kid riding pegs on the back of a bike. It’s different out here. Not bad. Just unfamiliar.

You checked your outfit three times, jeans that fit, hoodie that doesn’t try too hard, just enough makeup. You didn’t say it, but he knew. You wanted to look like you, just a little braver. With him, silence never feels empty. From the start, it’s like he hears what you don’t say, like your thoughts live in the space between you, and he knows how to read them.

You stay quiet, trying to breathe through the knot in your chest. It’s not just that you’re white. It’s walking into a room where you might not fit—not because you’re faking anything, but because you were raised in different worlds. You don’t always get the slang. You don’t move or talk like the girls he’s dated. You’re not curvy like them, not loud like them, not like them. And the last thing you ever want to be is the girl who just doesn’t get it.

Zaire doesn’t ask why you’re quiet. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently on your thigh. You haven’t let go of each other since you pulled out of the driveway.

What if they don’t like you? What if they think you’re pretending to belong somewhere you don’t? What if they think you’re just another white girl fetishizing Black men for the aesthetic, for mixed babies, for the idea of it? You’re not, but you know how it looks sometimes. You’ve never dated a Black guy before. And this is new, and layered, and you’re trying, but you're also scared of not getting it right.

“You alright?”