And So It Begins
1696 Words
Our first official date goes way better than I expect, which is hilarious because I’d spent the entire afternoon rehearsing cynical monologues about why it would be a disaster. I had imagined myself walking home alone, soaking wet, dramatically muttering about how Leo is an emotionally stunted narcissist.
But instead, he shows up wearing that stupid half-grin, holding two hot chocolates, and says, “You look incredible,” like I didn’t answer the door in a sweater with a stain on it, not at all prepared for our ‘date’ which now held too much pressure in its title.
He takes me to this tiny pier on the south end of town—one with cheap streetlights, a rusted railing, and the smell of salt and dying fish, but also something beautiful underneath. He keeps my hand in his as if letting go is a safety hazard.
We walk. For hours. Talking about everything and nothing: childhood, siblings, worst fears, best memories, music we pretend we hate but secretly love. I keep forgetting that this man built an empire with his brain and a smile. He looks like the kind of person who only reads finance articles but knows poetry by heart.
“If I could design a perfect future,” I tell him, “I’d own a house on the beach. My backyard would literally be the ocean. My kids and I would just live in the water like sea creatures. Peaceful, half-feral sea creatures.”
He snorts. “Aren’t you afraid of sharks? Or other… oceany things?”
“Not really. Somehow, I feel like we’d be safe.” I shrug. “Besides, I’ve always loved the ocean. Ever since I was little.”
He adjusts his posture to something theatrical, like my dream offended his pride. “I am much more keen on the sky. It’s structured chaos. Air has texture. The clouds have distinct geometry. The wind redesigns itself every minute.”
I stare at him. “Okay.” Then, deadpan: “So clearly we can’t be together.”
He goes immediately, tragically solemn. My joke detonates somewhere inside him, and suddenly, I’ve broken his heart.
“I’m kidding,” I say, grabbing his sleeve.
The boyish grin returns, smug and relieved. He pulls me to the edge of the pier and sits, feet dangling above low-tide water that reflects the evening sky. He stares upward, and I follow his gaze out of politeness, but eventually end up smiling at him instead. He notices.
We lean in, like we’re in a teen movie, like everything is slow motion and swelling music—
—and then a wave slaps both of us off the pier.
Salt water up my nose. Hair plastered to my face. Leo groaning like Poseidon personally ruined his life.
I cackle. Loud. Unattractive. Joyful.
He does not cackle.
And maybe that’s why I keep going back to him: he’s perfection and disaster at the same time, and I want to witness whatever chemical reaction happens next.
For weeks after that, every date ends the same. We get close—too close—and something interrupts. A delivery truck with a busted muffler. Someone losing their dog. Sudden rain. A toddler having a meltdown. Cosmic slapstick comedy.
It’s almost like the universe is determined to blue-ball us.
And yes, I remind myself regularly that Leo is not my type. Too pretty. Too powerful. Too much.
But my feet keep walking back to him anyway.
-----
Tonight, he says he has a surprise.
“Stay in your apartment until I call,” he orders, like I’m some gremlin he’s responsible for containing.
I resist. Because chaos. Also, because I look homeless in these pajamas.
But hours pass. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t knock. I pretend to be unbothered. I am actually devastatingly bothered.
And then, his name lights up my phone.
“Took you long enough,” I answer.
“A perfect night takes perfect preparation.”
“Who said I needed a perfect night? All I need is good food and good company.”
“Well, I’ve got at least one of those here. Why don’t you drop by my apartment?”
I smirk. “Mmm. I don’t know. I’m lazy. Can we make this a delivery?”
He doesn’t answer. At all.
Silence.
Empty.
And my stomach drops. Because apparently I have feelings.
“Leo? I was kidding. You don’t have that big of an ego, do you?”
Still nothing.
I’m about to panic-dial 911 when my door slams open and Leo barrels into my room, launching himself onto my bed like an animal.
“MISS ME?”
I shriek. He pins me down. I insult him. We bicker. He pretends to fall asleep on me. I try to shove him off, fail miserably, and laugh until my ribs ache.
Then he kisses me—quick, teasing, testing—like he’s checking if the world will end.
When he realizes it won’t, he keeps going.
The problem is: my body responds before my brain does. And I’m not prepared for that. My hands cling to him. My pulse trips over itself.
Something shifts between us. Something unspoken but loud.
And it’s too much.
Too fast.
Too vulnerable.
So I blurt: “So… I’m hungry. Wanna eat food?”
He growls some horrible innuendo that makes my skin heat in a way I refuse to acknowledge.
I shut it down. Messily.
We relocate to his apartment. He carries me like a medieval kidnapping. I yell. He laughs. My neighbors judge.
Inside, it’s candlelit. Romantic. Thought-out. Too thoughtful.
Lasagna on a fancy plate. Flowers. Wine. Rose petals like a budget prom proposal.
I joke because sincerity makes me itchy.
He watches me with stormy eyes.
The energy shifts again.
Darkens.
Tightens.
And suddenly he isn’t listening. Not fully.
He stands, his hand still wrapped around my wrist, and walks around the table until he’s towering over me. Something is off with him again. It isn’t the Leo I know—it’s someone stormy, charged, like there’s some internal pressure building that he can’t contain.
“...Food?” I ask, voice too bright, pretending nothing’s wrong. But he just shakes his head slowly, gaze fixed on me with a focus that makes every nerve in my body brace for impact.
My pulse spikes—not with excitement, but something colder. Something old. Something that remembers nights where boundaries vanished and I wasn’t heard.
He lowers himself to his knees, his face level with mine. His grip on my wrist doesn’t soften. His other hand lands on my thigh—firm, claiming, not curious or gentle. The touch is possessive in a way that sends fear crackling up my spine.
“Leo, stop,” I say, steady, because sounding afraid has never helped. Sounding afraid is permission to push harder.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even blink.
He’s somewhere else—lost in his own urgency, his own control.
His jaw tenses. His body shakes, minute and terrifying, like he’s fighting himself.
His hand pushes higher on my thigh, fingers curling into the waistband of my sweatpants. Panic hits hard and fast—before my mind has time to explain to my body that this is Leo and I know him. My body doesn’t care.
“I said stop.”
My voice cracks.
He still doesn’t respond. His grip on my wrist tightens, bracing like he expects resistance. Like I’m an opponent. Not a person.
“You’re so… soft,” he murmurs, voice low, dissociated.
Not tender.
Predatory.
My breath stutters.
My vision blurs.
I freeze—just like always—bones locking before my brain catches up. I’m thirteen again. Twenty again. Every age where no didn’t matter.
I shove at his shoulders, nails digging into skin, desperate.
He doesn’t budge.
Instead, he pulls my sweatpants down, leaving me exposed to cold air, candles, and unwanted eyes.
“Leo—stop. Stop. STOP.”
He doesn’t.
Instinct takes over before thought can. My body surges backward, half falling, half scrambling over the chair in a clumsy, animalistic escape.
My breath escapes in humiliating sobs.
Not delicate.
Not cinematic.
Ugly, panicked, real.
I don’t look back.
Don’t wait.
Don’t care that my pants are on his floor.
I sprint along the candlelit path, bare-legged, terrified.
Behind me, I hear the chair screech, his body stumbling up—but I don’t stop to see if he’s angry or confused or ready to chase.
I crash into my apartment, slam the door, lock it, double-lock it.
Bedroom.
Baseball bat.
Bathroom.
Door locked.
Heart violently shaking my ribcage.
I can hear him yelling—words blurred by panic—and fists hitting the front door. Not knocking.
Pounding.
I grip the bat so hard my knuckles ache, because I know—
If he wants in, he can break the door down.
And I can’t stop him.
Then—silence.
Heavy.
Terrifying.
The kind that makes my lungs forget how to work.
The kind that makes my body think:
He’s waiting. He’s hunting. He’s deciding.
But then—my cursed curiosity.
That stupid, stubborn voice that wants answers even when terrified.
I creep out and head to the front door, bat raised, knees shaking.
As I get closer, I hear it.
Not rage.
Not threats.
Sobbing.
Raw, broken, humiliating sobbing.
It’s him.
I know it.
I feel it.
Something shifts inside me—something protective, something stupid.
I unlock the door before my brain can stop me and swing it open.
Leo falls in, collapsing at my feet, clutching my sweatpants impossibly tight. He’s using them to wipe his face.
His cheeks are blotchy.
Eyes red.
Lips trembling.
He looks wrecked.
Human.
Small.
And something in me aches—deep, instinctive—to stop him from hurting.
I bend down, despite every instinct screaming, and touch him.
The moment I do, I feel him.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
His guilt, his fear, his loneliness pour into me like liquid, heavy and overwhelming.
He sucks in a breath when I touch him, as if the contact burns.
He looks up at me, broken and bewildered.
- Writer
