57

Okay. Deep breath.

It's been two months since Senna agreed to be mine.

Sixty-something days since she kissed me first.

And I'm still a lovesick idiot with clammy palms every time she looks at me like I matter.

She's sitting across from me on her bedroom floor, legs folded, hair in a loose puff, hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands. She's highlighting college pamphlets like her life depends on it, but I swear time slows down every time she chews on her pen.

I've seen her cry. Seen her shut down. Seen her laugh so hard she snorted.

And still - still - I'm hopelessly, pathetically nervous around her.

Especially now.

Because I'm going to ask her out. On a real date. Not mango slices under the stairs. Not half-eaten fries in my car. A real linen napkin kind of thing.

"Hey, uh... you're free tomorrow, right?"

Her pen stops moving. She tilts her head. My stomach does a full gymnastics routine.

"Why?" she says slowly, suspicious.

"Because," I say, trying for cool and landing somewhere around panicked golden retriever, "I want to take you out. Like, actually out. Fancy out."

"Luca..."

"I already made a reservation," I blurt, too fast. "And I looked up what semi-formal means. It's not that scary, I promise-unless you're scared of cloth napkins, which I totally get, some of them are like, really aggressive."

She's staring at me. Her lips twitch. "You googled the dress code?"

"I didn't want to mess it up!" I pause. "Also, I may have bought a blazer."

"A blazer?"

"A navy one. With inside pockets. You can put your stuff in it."

Her laugh comes out soft and warm and I almost combust.

"Okay," she says.

"Okay?"

"I'll go on your fancy date."

I exhale like I've been holding my breath for years. And then, because I hate myself a little: "Also... my parents are home."

Her entire body stiffens. "What?"

"Like. Here. At the manor."

"Why are they here?"

"Annual check-in. They parachute in once a year to ask how I'm doing, pretend to care, then fly back to Monaco or the Alps or wherever you go when you're rich and emotionally unavailable."

She raises an eyebrow. "You want me to meet them?"

"Only if you want to," I say, suddenly very interested in the carpet. "I mean. You're important to me. You're it, Senna. And it's stupid that they don't know that."

"What if they hate me?"

I sit up straighter. "Impossible."

"You're rich. I'm-"

"Perfect," I interrupt. "You're perfect. And smart. And better than everyone else I've ever met."

"Luca..."

"And if they say something rude, I will throw sparkling water in someone's face. Dramatically. Like in a period drama."

She laughs again. Thank God.

"You're ridiculous."

"And deeply in love with you."

She's quiet after that. A kind of soft quiet. Like she's thinking too many things at once.

And I get it.

Senna's not just any girl. She's the only Black girl at a school full of pearl-white trust fund kids and country club legacies. She's here on scholarship. I'm here because my name is Churchill.

Her life has been paper cuts and armor. Mine has been safety nets.

Of course she's nervous.

So I reach across the space between us and take her hand.

"You don't have to impress them. I'm already impressed enough for all of us."

"Luca-"

"Just be you. That's all I want."

From the hallway, we hear Bear and Auggie yell something about "chicken nuggets and world domination." I think they're wrestling.

"Your brothers scare me," I whisper.

"They like you."

"They renamed me Stairboy."

"Again. They like you. That's a compliment."

I kiss her forehead, linger there for a second longer than I probably should, and whisper:

"Wear something nice. I'll pick you up at six."

"Will you be overdressed?"

"In every way."

"Perfect," she says.

And somehow, I leave the room grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

Even if my parents are terrifying. Even if the date is a disaster. Even if I spill soup in my lap.

She said yes.

Again.

---------------------------------------------------------------

I'm going to pass out.

I've tied this stupid tie five times and I still look like I'm being choked by a silk noodle. The blazer feels too tight. The cologne smells like money and mistakes.

Why did I think dinner reservations were a good idea?

"Sir?" Klaus, our family's long-suffering driver, peers into the foyer like I'm not fully spiraling. "The car is ready."

"Cool. Great. I'm... I'm chill."

Klaus blinks. "Very good, sir."

I grab the flowers - a small bouquet, not too showy, soft orange and mango tones because her favorite fruit lives in my brain rent-free - and head out before I lose my nerve.

When I knock on her door, I expect Bear or Auggie to jump out and attack me with plastic swords or ask if I've brought them snacks.

Instead, Senna opens it.

And I forget how to exist.

She's wearing a deep green dress - simple, elegant, like she just stepped out of a dream and into my evening. Her hair is down in soft coils, her lips glossy, and her smile...

Her smile could end me.

"You clean up nice," she says, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"You look like a forest goddess," I blurt.

She laughs. "That's... specific."

"Sorry, I-uh-brought these." I shove the flowers at her like a middle schooler. "They reminded me of you."

She looks at them. Then at me. Then back to the flowers like they just whispered secrets.

"They're perfect."

I am ascending.

The drive to the restaurant is quiet - soft music, her fingers tangled with mine, her head occasionally resting against the window.

I sneak glances at her like I'm trying to memorize the moment. Because I am.

She doesn't belong in a school that ignores her or a world that doubts her.

She belongs on stages. In libraries. In galleries. In sunlight.

I want to give her all of it.

Even if all I can afford right now is a nice restaurant and a boyishly nervous date night.

The maître d' leads us to a private table by a window, candlelight flickering between us.

She orders sparkling lemonade. I get water because I'm trying to look like a person who drinks responsibly instead of spilling things.

"You okay?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

"No. I mean yes. I mean... you're just very-" I wave at her vaguely. "You."

"And that's a problem?"

"It's a distraction."

She smiles over the rim of her glass. "Good."

We talk about colleges, Bear's latest science project (a baking soda volcano that ruined their mom's tablecloth), and the fact that I once mistook a bidet for a tiny sink when I was ten.

She nearly chokes on her lemonade.

"You're hopeless," she wheezes.

"Hopelessly in love with you, yes."

And then there's silence - warm, slow, full.

She reaches for my hand across the table.

"This is really nice."

"You deserve really nice."

After dinner, I walk her back to the limo (because yes, I'm that guy now, thanks Dad). Klaus nods wordlessly as I open the door.

She slides in, graceful even when she's tired, and rests her head on my shoulder.

I wrap an arm around her.

Her fingers play with the lapel of my blazer.

"Thanks for overdressing."

"Thanks for saying yes to a guy with a bad tie and rich kid trauma."

She snorts.

We're quiet for a moment, the city lights painting golden shapes on the windows.

"Luca?"

"Yeah?"

"You make me feel safe."

My heart does a full swan dive.

"You make me feel like I matter."

I press a kiss to her temple and whisper:

"You're everything."

She doesn't say anything.

She doesn't have to.

Her hand finds mine.

And that's enough.