Drop you?
He’s looking at me—so intensely—I can’t tell if it’s the aftereffect of alcohol or if I’m blushing so hard my cheeks might explode. God, he’s handsome. That face. Those eyes. And just like that, fuck, I made eye contact.
After all the failed dates and hopeless swipes, I finally land the perfect match. A blind date that actually isn’t a disaster. Not that it’s just us—no, it’s a quadruple date. Wait, is that even a word? Quadrable? Ugh. What’s happening to me?
All because of this drop-dead gorgeous man sitting right across from me.
“What are your plans after this?” he says.
The girl next to me chimes in, “What could they be? It’s almost midnight—sleeping, of course.”
He turns to me, waiting for my answer. Oh god. I’m the boring one, the girl who has no clue what people do after dates. I mean, imagine: a fresher at the country’s top college, with no social life after two years of solid studying. Pathetic.
But I do have a plan. I mean, it’s raining, after all.
“I would likely go... go... backkk... home,” I stutter.
And then he laughs.
Even his laugh is beautiful. And me? I laugh like a horse—unfiltered and weird. But I do have a nice smile. I think.
“Where do you live, Anya?” he asks.
“Near the college campus. Lane 87, House No. 4,” I reply, way too fast, like I was reciting my school introduction.
So embarrassing.
But when your 3AM fantasy walks out of your dreams and sits across from you in full human form, you start questioning everything—your posture, your breathing, your existence.
“I live in that direction too. Would you mind if I dropped you home? It’s raining hard—you won’t find a cab.”
NO. No, Anya. No. You don’t know how to flirt, let alone kiss. This is your first date. He’s probably kissed dozens of girls, and you still flinch when someone brushes your arm. You can’t say yes.
“Sure. Fine by me.”
You are going to regret this, Ms. Virgin.
