Leo’s Perspective

  Friday Night: The Bar, The Woman, and the Moment That Shouldn’t Have Happened

  Leo wasn’t thinking about her when he walked into the bar.

  He wasn’t thinking about much, really.

  Just another night out. Another round of drinks. Another easy conversation with a girl whose name he had already forgotten.

  He should probably remember it.

  She was laughing at something he’d said—something charming, something just flirty enough.

  She was leaning in, hand resting lightly against his arm, blonde hair tumbling over one shoulder.

  She was exactly his type.

  And yet—

  He wasn’t listening.

  Because out of the corner of his eye, the entrance opened.

  And just like that—everything shifted.

  Ada.

  Walking in like she hadn’t just turned the whole room upside down.

  His drink hovered near his lips, but he didn’t take a sip. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  Because—fuck.

  She looked good. Not in a way that was obvious. Not in a way that screamed for attention.

  Just effortlessly, unfairly good. The dress was emerald green. Sleek but not showy.

  Just fitted enough that he could see the shape of her waist, the curve of her back when she moved.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  And her hair—soft waves over her shoulders, catching the dim bar light just enough to make him want to run his fingers through it.

  Leo’s grip tightened slightly around his glass. He wasn’t prepared for this. For her. And then—of course—she turned. Saw him and froze. For half a second. Just long enough. Their eyes met.

  And Leo, who always knew exactly what to say, who could charm his way through anything, who had never once hesitated before, hesitated.

  Long enough to feel that tight pull in his chest before he recovered. Before he did the only thing he knew how to do.

  He smirked. Smooth. Casual. Like he wasn’t thrown.

  Like she wasn’t throwing him.

  And then Ada looked away. Too fast. Too deliberate.

  Leo exhaled, finally taking a sip of his drink. Didn’t look away. Not yet. Because he wasn’t done seeing her.

  Not yet.

  Then, she turned back.

  And that’s when he felt it. The flicker of something. Something real.

  And Leo? Leo had no fucking idea what to do with that.

  The blonde beside him said something, something light, something flirty.

  Leo didn’t hear it. Didn’t even pretend to.

  Because suddenly, Ada was the only person in the room.

  And that?

  That was a problem.

  Saturday Morning: The Hangover That Wasn’t the Problem

  Leo stood in front of his bathroom mirror, water dripping from his face, hands braced against the counter.

  He had washed his face twice.

  Like that was going to do anything. Like that was going to clear his head.

  Because the problem wasn’t the night before. The drinks. The conversation.

  Even the woman he had been talking to—what was her name?

  Shit.

  Didn’t matter. Because the problem?

  The real problem?

  Was Ada.

  The way she had stepped into that bar, completely unaware of the fucking disaster she was about to cause.

  That green dress. The fabric catching the light just enough to distract him mid-sentence.

  The way it fit her, hugging in all the right places, but not in an obvious way. Not like she had picked it to turn heads.

  Which only made it worse. She wasn’t trying.

  And yet he noticed.

  He fucking noticed.

  More than he wanted to. More than he should have.

  Leo exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the sink. He needed to get over it. To stop thinking about it. About her.

  About how, in those few seconds, he had completely forgotten whatever dumb joke he was making.

  Forgotten the woman next to him. Forgotten the entire damn room. And all because Ada Watanabe walked in wearing a dress that made his brain short-circuit.

  Fuck.

  He dragged a towel over his face, like that would help.

  It didn’t. Because now?

  Now he was thinking about what the fabric might have felt like.

  Soft? Smooth?

  Would it slip under his hands if he grabbed her by the waist? Would it wrinkle if he pulled her closer? Would she let him?

  Fucking hell.

  Leo tossed the towel aside and braced his hands against the sink, exhaling through his nose.

  This was stupid. It didn’t mean anything. It was just the surprise of seeing her there. That’s all.

  Nothing weird.

  Nothing important.

  Right?

  But as he stood there, jaw tight, pulse still not fucking settled, he realized:

  That was a lie.