Day of Dating

The sun poured in through the dorm window, its golden glow spilling across the sheets, across your bare legs, warming your skin as you stood in front of your closet. The air still smelled faintly of Liam’s soap and shampoo from his shower, a soft freshness lingering in the space. It made the room feel clean, light, like a fresh start.

Today was special.

Last night, as you’d cuddled into Liam’s chest—his arm wrapped around your waist, his warmth seeping into you—you’d both realized something embarrassingly obvious: despite everything, despite the insane sex and the constant intimacy, you had never actually gone on a real date since becoming a couple. A temporary couple, but a couple nonetheless.

And so, with nine days left before this ended, today was going to be the day.

A proper date.

Casual, relaxed, but still perfect.

Which meant, of course, that you needed an outfit to match.

You started with your panties, sliding them up your legs with a soft shimmy of your hips. They were lace—of course—delicate, intricate, with thin straps that sat high on your waist, accentuating the soft curve of your hips. A tiny bow sat at the front, right below your navel, an unnecessary but utterly adorable detail.

Next was your bra—a choice that required a moment of thought. You wanted cleavage, something undeniably sexy but also effortless, like you just happened to wake up looking this good. After a second of deliberation, you went with a deep-plunge, push-up bra, one that lifted just enough to make your chest look incredible while still being comfortable. You adjusted the straps, smoothing your hands over the cups, ensuring everything sat just right.

Then came your top—a cropped number that hugged your torso like a dream. The fabric was soft, slightly stretchy, clinging in all the right places. The low-cut neckline was an added blessing, showcasing your cleavage in a way that was impossible to ignore. You tugged it down slightly, making sure it sat just right before giving yourself a quick look in the mirror.

Perfect.

Your shorts came next—high-waisted, frayed at the edges, fitted to perfection. They showcased your legs, accentuated your waist, and paired effortlessly with the top. You slipped them on, fastening the button and zipping them up with a satisfying pull.

You were halfway through adjusting the hem of your shorts when Liam walked out of the bathroom, his damp hair tousled, towel slung around his neck. His eyes immediately found you—half-dressed, standing in front of the mirror, the curve of your waist on full display, legs bare, cleavage sitting pretty.

“Damn,” he muttered, pausing mid-step, running a hand through his wet hair as his gaze roamed. “How do you manage to look like a fucking fantasy even when you’re just putting on clothes?”

You smirked, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “Talent.”

Liam let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he made his way to his dresser. He made quick work of getting dressed—because of course he did. Men. He slid on a pair of dark jeans, pulled a T-shirt over his head, and ruffled his hair into something effortlessly messy.

Meanwhile, you were still adjusting your outfit, smoothing your hands over the fabric, making sure everything sat just right.

Liam, now fully dressed, was already heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

You immediately stopped him.

“Wait.” You turned, placing a hand on your hip. “Why can’t we just get coffee outside instead of drinking our sad, boring home coffee?”

Liam narrowed his eyes, feigning offense. “Wow. Disrespectful. I make excellent coffee, actually.”

“Yeah, okay, barista.” You rolled your eyes playfully. “I just think if we’re gonna have a whole date, we should start it off properly. You know, good coffee. Fancy coffee. Not ‘shitty dorm coffee made in a five-year-old coffee machine that sounds like it’s dying every time we use it.’”

Liam sighed, dramatic as ever. “Fine. You’ve convinced me. No homemade coffee.”

“Good.” You grinned. “Now, instead, you can help me with my makeup.”

Liam’s entire face dropped. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

Liam groaned, rubbing his temples. “I don’t even know how to do makeup.”

“That’s why I’ll help you help me.”

He sighed again, as if this was the greatest burden he’d ever endured. But he still walked over, flopping onto the bed with an exaggerated grunt.

“Fine. But I take no responsibility for any crimes I commit against your face.”

You smirked, grabbing your makeup bag and heading towards the bathroom. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll make sure you don’t fuck it up too badly.”

Liam let out a long-suffering groan. “This is the boyfriend life, isn’t it?”

You leaned in, placing the softest kiss on his lips.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It really is.”

The bathroom was warm, the air still carrying the faintest traces of Liam’s shower—clean, fresh, him. You stood in front of the mirror, makeup bag unzipped on the counter, brushes and palettes spread out like an artist’s toolkit. Liam hovered behind you, close enough to feel, his body heat seeping into your back, the barest brush of his breath against your shoulder as he reluctantly prepared to become your makeshift makeup artist.

“I don’t know why you’re trusting me with this,” he muttered, eyeing the products like they might explode if he touched them wrong. “This feels like a horrible idea.”

You smirked at his reflection, reaching back to give his hip a light tap. “I trust you completely, baby.” Then, after a beat, “But not enough to let you make all the choices.”

Liam groaned. “Great. So I’m just your human brush holder?”

“Exactly.” You grinned, turning slightly before nudging his hands toward the products. “Okay, first decision—what kind of look are we going for? Soft? Bold? Sultry? Natural?”

Liam’s brows furrowed in deep concentration, like he was making a life-altering decision. “Uh… sultry?”

You nodded approvingly. “Good choice. You know I look hot with a sultry look.”

“I mean, yeah,” Liam said, grinning now, hands settling loosely on your hips. “But you’d look hot even if I painted a clown face on you.”

“Don’t test me, Liam.”

He chuckled but tightened his grip just a little, pressing a soft, almost absentminded kiss to the bare part of your shoulder. “Alright. Where do we start?”

You picked up a bottle of primer and handed it to him. “This. It’s like a base coat for my face. Just a tiny bit—tiny, Liam—rubbed in evenly.”

He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. Too generous.

“Okay, nope.” You quickly swiped some of it off before he could slather it on like sunscreen. “We are not wasting half the bottle in one go.”

Liam made a noise of mild protest but followed your lead, spreading the primer over your skin with surprising gentleness. His fingers moved in light circles, smoothing it over your cheeks, forehead, and chin. His touch was slow, almost deliberate, and for a moment, the simple act of applying primer felt oddly intimate.

“Damn,” Liam murmured, voice lower now. “Your skin is soft as hell.”

You rolled your eyes, even as a small warmth bloomed in your chest. “Focus, Casanova. Next step—foundation.”

Liam picked up the bottle and the damp beauty sponge you handed him, turning it over like some mystical artifact.

“Do I… slap it on?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“No, you dab it. Lightly.”

He tried. He really tried. But Liam had zero concept of what ‘lightly’ meant, and after a few aggressive smacks to your cheek, you winced, grabbing his wrist.

“Babe,” you said, deadpan, “I’m not a bongo drum.”

Liam bit back a laugh, his shoulders shaking. “Okay, okay, I’ll be gentler.”

And this time, he was. The sponge bounced softly against your skin, blending the foundation in even strokes. You watched him in the mirror, his brows knit together in focus, lips slightly parted as he worked. It was kind of… endearing, watching him try so hard at something so out of his element.

“Not bad,” you admitted once he was done.

Liam looked ridiculously proud of himself. “Hell yeah. Look at me, professional MUA.”

“You blended foundation, Liam. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Liam smirked but took the concealer you handed him next. “Where does this go?”

You guided him, letting him draw tiny triangles under your eyes, a little on your chin and forehead, a swipe down the bridge of your nose. This time, he didn’t even need direction on the blending—he remembered. His hand was steadier, his dabs softer, and by the time he was done, your skin looked flawless.

You gave a little nod of approval. “Okay, I’m kinda impressed.”

Liam did a mock bow. “Glad to be of service.”

But the real challenge came next.

Eyebrows.

“Oh, hell no,” Liam said as soon as you handed him the brow pencil.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Relax. You just follow the natural shape—don’t overdo it.”

Liam tried. He really, really tried. But five minutes later, you looked like you had two giant, uneven caterpillars on your face.

You sighed, grabbing a makeup wipe and rubbing them off. “Okay, I’ll handle the brows.”

Liam groaned in mock defeat. “Fine. But I’m totally killing it on everything else.”

“Debatable.”

Once your brows were back to perfection, you handed Liam an eyeshadow palette.

“This is the most important part,” you said seriously. “You picked ‘sultry,’ so go ahead—choose the shades.”

Liam looked at the rows of colors, clearly overwhelmed. “Jesus. There’s like… fifty.”

You smirked. “Make a choice, babe.”

After a moment, he pointed at a warm brown and a deep shimmery bronze.

You nodded. “Good picks. Now—watch me do one eye, then you copy it.”

You blended the colors seamlessly, creating a smoky, alluring effect, then handed him the brush. “Go on.”

Liam hesitated but started copying your movements. To your utter shock, he wasn’t terrible.

You leaned in, inspecting. “Huh. Not bad.”

Liam smirked, looking way too pleased with himself.

Then came eyeliner.

“No,” you said instantly.

“What? Why?”

“I value my eyeballs, Liam.”

Liam pouted but let you handle the eyeliner and mascara yourself. Then, it was time for the final step.

“Lipstick,” you said, handing him the perfect shade of deep red. “You do this one.”

Liam grinned. “Oh, this I can do.”

And to his credit… he did it well. He took his time, tracing the shape of your lips carefully, filling them in with slow, precise strokes. By the time he was done, you looked in the mirror and… damn.

You looked gorgeous.

Liam stood back, admiring his work. “So? Did I pass?”

You turned, pressing a hand to his chest. “With flying colors.”

He smirked, hands sliding to your waist. “Good. Because I just realized something.”

“What?”

“This feels so romantic.”

Your heart stumbled, just a little.

“Yeah,” you murmured, smiling. “It really does.”

And with that, you leaned in, brushing your lips against his—not enough to smudge the lipstick, but enough to make your stomach flip.

A real date. A real moment. A real feeling.

The last finishing touch to any outfit—the right shoes. You reached for your sleek, heeled ankle boots, sliding your feet into them one at a time, the soft leather molding perfectly to your form. The laces were already tied from before, snug but not too tight. As you adjusted the fit, Liam sat on the edge of the bed, slipping on his casual sneakers, the laces looped with lazy ease. It was an effortless contrast—you, in something that made you taller, more poised, more commanding; him, in something comfortable, easy, relaxed. And yet, somehow, the two of you fit together perfectly.

As you straightened up, Liam gave you a quick once-over, eyes raking from your legs to your cleavage, then back down again. “I mean, I already knew you looked hot, but damn.” His voice was low, appreciative. “How am I supposed to focus on literally anything today?”

You smirked, reaching for his arm as he stood. “You’ll manage, babe.”

With that, the two of you left your dorm, stepping into the hallway, arms linked together like it was the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, the way your steps naturally fell in sync—it felt good. More than that, it felt right.

As you passed through the hall, a familiar door came into view—the very same one where that mouthy asshole had been standing last time. And, as if summoned by some ironic **** of karma, he was there again, fumbling with his keys.

The moment his gaze flicked up and landed on you, his entire expression shifted. One second, he was just another guy unlocking his door, and the next, his face was a perfect portrait of fear. His body went rigid, shoulders tensing, the ghost of your last encounter flickering across his features.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. You just gave him a slow, deliberate wink.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. His fingers shook slightly as he struggled with the lock.

Liam, oblivious as ever, continued walking beside you, his pace never faltering. But as soon as you passed and the guy was out of earshot, he let out a low scoff.

“What the hell was that?” He turned his head slightly, brows furrowed in confusion.

You grinned, playfully mysterious. “I’ll tell you over coffee.”

Liam narrowed his eyes, but there was no suspicion—just genuine bewilderment. “Why do I feel like it’s gonna be something insane?”

“Because, babe,” you said, squeezing his arm, “you know me.”

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and the two of you stepped inside. The space was empty aside from you, a small, intimate pocket of quiet. As the doors closed, sealing you in, a hush settled between you. There was no banter, no jokes, no playful teasing. Just… eye contact.

You turned to look at him. He turned to look at you.

In that exact moment, in her mind, she wasn’t thinking about coffee. She wasn’t thinking about whatever conversation was coming next. She wasn’t even thinking about the guy in the hallway, or the lingering amusement over his fear.

She was thinking about this. This quiet, weightless moment between them.

Because for all the sex, all the teasing, all the back-and-forth games they played, this—this feeling—was something else entirely.

It was in the way his eyes held hers, steady, unguarded. It was in the way the edges of his smile softened, not cocky or mischievous, but gentle. It was in the way he looked at her, not like a temporary arrangement, not like someone passing through his life, but like something worth holding onto.

And she liked it. She liked it so much it scared her.

Because in nine days, the “temporary” label was supposed to become real again.

In that exact moment, in his mind, Liam wasn’t thinking about whatever weird thing had just happened in the hallway. He wasn’t thinking about coffee, or breakfast, or whatever the hell this date was supposed to be.

He was thinking about her.

He was always thinking about her.

The way she looked right now, standing there, framed by the dim glow of the elevator lights—god. It was unfair. The soft curl of her lips, the heat in her gaze, the way her body fit so perfectly next to his…

He could fall for her.

Hell, maybe he already had.

The thought made something tighten in his chest, a slow, creeping realization settling over him.

This was supposed to be temporary. A fun, impulsive thing between them.

But all of this—everything about her—felt so comfortable now.

The elevator doors slid open, breaking the silent, heavy tension between you. Neither of you spoke right away. But as you stepped out, Liam did something small, something that probably seemed insignificant to anyone else.

He reached for your hand.

And without thinking—without hesitation—you took it.