Ivan's POV
The moment I step inside my apartment, I close the door softly, my back pressing against it as I exhale, my heart still racing.
Then—
I blush.
I actually blush.
The warmth spreads from my chest to my face, a deep, embarrassing heat that I can't control. My fingers tingle, and my stomach does that ridiculous fluttering thing that only happens in bad romance novels.
I've never felt like this before.
Not even once.
Never had the chance to.
Growing up, there was no high school romance for me—no innocent, fumbling first dates, no late-night calls whispering sweet nothings.
Instead, I had rejection, isolation, being kicked out for who I was, they threw me onto the streets just because I liked boys and then I was thrust into the world of modeling, where love wasn't something people like me had time for. Desire? Sure. Temptation? Plenty.
But this?
This giddy, lightheaded, smiling-like-an-idiot-at-my-phone kind of feeling?This is new.
I press my cold hands against my warm face, trying to will away the flush, but it's useless.
The memory of Zander's boyish smile, his casual stance, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the world tonight—it replays over and over again, making my chest feel tight and too full at the same time.
Then, like an absolute lunatic, I let out a giddy little giggle, run to my bedroom, and dive onto my bed, face-first into my pillow.
And then—
I squeal.
Like.
A.
Damn.
Teenager.
After I finally calm down, I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.
There's something about this, about how different it feels, how unexpected it is, that makes me want to preserve it—to savor every single moment.
I turn my head, eyes landing on my calendar, and before I even know what I'm doing, I sit up, grab a pen, and start counting dates.
On our 99th date, we're fucking.
I write it down, circling the number dramatically.
It needs to be special. I don't want this to be something casual. I want the build-up, the longing, the aching need to finally explode into something undeniable.
I tap my pen against my lip, narrowing my eyes.
The first kiss…
Hmm.
Not too soon. That would ruin the slow burn.
Date three? No, too early.
Date thirteen.Yes. Lucky thirteen.
I write it down.
A kiss on the thirteenth date.
Going to second base…
Hmm.
Date twenty sounds good.
I nod, jotting it down seriously, my handwriting careful and precise, as if this is some official document of great importance.
Because, honestly?
It is.
This is our story, and I'm going to write it perfectly.
Once I've finalized my master plan, I grab my phone, my fingers hesitating over the screen before I finally type out the message.
"I had fun today."
I hit send, my heart pounding a little too fast for something so simple.
The reply comes almost instantly.
> "Me too."
I bite my lip, staring at the screen, debating what to say next.
Should I flirt? Should I keep it casual? Should I make him suffer a little?
I drum my fingers against the mattress.
Then, before I can overthink it, I type—
"You looked hot today."
I hit send.
My stomach tightens, anticipation thrumming under my skin.
His response comes so fast it's like he was waiting for it.
> "I may not be a broke teenage boy, but I certainly have the hormones and libido. Don't test me."
I burst out laughing.Loud, obnoxious laughter fills my empty bedroom, and I have to press a hand against my mouth to stifle the sound.
He's so unfair.I can practically see him, smirking at his phone, thinking he's so damn clever.
Bastard.
I type back—
"Goodnight."
Then, before I can stop myself, I punch my pillow again, rolling onto my side, kicking my feet slightly like an idiot.
God.
I'm so doomed.