Swipe Right
Copyright© 2026 by Sci-FiTy1972
Chapter 2: Which One
Darius checked the time on his phone and then slipped it back into his pocket like it might judge him.
He was early. Of course he was.
The car idled at the curb, windows down, Indiana summer drifting in—cut grass, distant traffic, the low promise of heat that hadn’t quite decided what it wanted to be yet.
He told himself this was casual. He told himself a lot of things.
The door opened.
For a second, his brain refused to process the information in the correct order.
Amina stepped out into the sunlight wearing shorts that were ... technically modest. Not trying too hard. Just enough leg to suggest confidence instead of intention. A soft top. Relaxed. Effortless.
And then his eyes dropped.
One foot wore a gym shoe. Sensible. Ready for walking. The other wore a low heel. Elegant. Dangerous in a quiet way.
She closed the door behind her, leaned slightly against the frame, and smiled like she already knew the answer.
“Well?” she asked. “Which one?”
Darius did not answer.
He just stood there.
Mouth open. Brain completely offline.
If there was a protocol for this moment, it had not been covered in any field manual he’d ever read.
Amina watched him for a beat. Then another. Her smile softened—not teasing, not triumphant. Just ... amused.
“Darius?” she said gently.
He blinked once. Then again.
“I—” He stopped. Restarted. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”
She laughed. Not loud. Warm. The kind of laugh that doesn’t embarrass you—it lets you breathe again.
She lifted one foot, then the other, like she was weighing options. “Shoe. Or shoe.”
He swallowed.
“Both,” he said finally, voice lower than he intended. “I think ... both are correct.”
She studied his face for a moment—really studied it—then nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
She slipped the heel off and tossed it into the back seat without ceremony, sliding into the passenger side like she belonged there.
Darius closed the door for her automatically, muscle memory taking over where his thoughts still hadn’t caught up.
As he walked around to the driver’s side, she glanced over at him.
“You okay?” she asked.
He started the car. Put it in gear. Took a breath.
“Yeah,” he said honestly. “Just re-calibrating.”
“That’s fair,” she replied. “First impressions can be ... destabilizing.”
He glanced at her. She was looking out the window now, sunlight catching in her hair, expression calm—almost serene.
He pulled away from the curb.
They didn’t rush into conversation. That was already becoming a pattern between them. Silence wasn’t awkward—it was spacious.
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