When Love Crashed In

Just Let Them Date, Universe!

Freen (shrugging):
“My GPS is synced to my heart.
It only has one destination.”

Becky slapped her arm.

Becky:
“Stop flirting, stupid.”

Freen just grinned, helmet off, hair wild, looking too smug to exist.

Freen:
“Who said I was flirting? I was just… stating my coordinates.”

Becky melted. Again.
And she cursed the universe for making one human this dangerously adorable.

The morning spilled into Freen’s room like honey—slow, golden, and impossibly tender. Soft rays of sunlight pressed against cream-colored curtains, painting faint warm shapes across the wooden floor. The world outside whispered softly — a quiet breeze, distant birds, the gentle hum of life.

Freen woke to it all with a half-smile already on her lips.

There was a warmth in her chest, not fully awake yet, but thrumming like a secret heartbeat waiting to be acknowledged. She stretched slowly, eyes closed, letting memory catch up to sensation.

And the moment it did, she whispered to the empty room, voice still husky with sleep,

“Tonight…”
Her fingers curled into the blanket.
“I get to take her out… as mine.”

She exhaled, soft and shaky, like the air itself carried meaning.

Rising from bed, she padded across the room, hair messy, face soft from dreams. On the vanity, a pair of perfume testers lay scattered—last night’s indecisive trial of scents. She chuckled lightly to herself.

“I swear, Sarocha,” she muttered, brushing her hair,
“you’ve done investor presentations with less panic than choosing a perfume.”

Her cheeks warmed at her own reflection — not vanity, but vulnerability.
She showered, steam curling around her, washing away every restless thought. When she stepped out, towel wrapped loose at her neck, the mirror caught a face that kept accidentally smiling.

She shook her head, embarrassed at herself.

“Get it together,” she mumbled, pressing her palm to her cheek.
“It’s just a date.”

Then she paused, corrected herself, softer now — reverent.

“It’s our first date.”

She opened the wardrobe slowly, fingertips grazing fabrics until she stopped — as if the right outfit had been waiting for her, not the other way around.

A crisp white shirt.
Charcoal suit.
Understated elegance.

She buttoned the shirt carefully, each button a quiet vow.
Rolled her sleeves — neat, clean, confident.
A look that whispered devotion without saying a word.

With every piece she put on, she breathed steadier.

Perfume came next — cedarwood with vanilla musk, subtle but warm. She held the bottle near her pulse and whispered as though speaking a truth to her own skin,

“She likes when I smell warm…”

Spray.
Breathe.
Settle.