Swooped | ✓

Chapter 41: Pecking Order

It was a week later that Milo and I decided to go on a date. A proper date.

Since we started off as best friends, our relationship had skipped the actual dating part. Sure, we ate out together often, saw movies in the cinema, went on walks (or night flights, more commonly) and all of that jazz. And yes, we kissed, and held hands, and did everything that a couple would do, but it was like we had bypassed the slightly awkwardly romantic courting period.

Hell, considering Milo was at my place basically 24/7, we had skipped the whole dating stage and are basically now in the midst of mutual domesticity, borderline married. At least, that's how Gia had put it, and Milo and I couldn't really deny the truth of her statement, though we adamantly ignored what she had said.

It was from her statement that we decided that we needed to have a proper date. Where Milo picked me up, drove me somewhere, maybe had a romantic lunch or dinner, and then went home. He could kiss me on the cheek, say good bye, before I dragged him in for a first-date shag. Not because I was easy (but let's be honest, I kind of am), but because Milo would be such a gentleman that it made me want nothing more than to fall to my knees and show him how much I enjoyed the date.

So now, here I was, sitting on my couch with my leg nervously bobbing up and down. Ridiculous, to be honest, since we were just playing at having a first date, but somehow that had morphed into me freaking out internally because 'Oh God, am I supposed to be romantic? Does Milo expect me to dress up properly, like an actual date? Oh no, I can't just wear a hoodie and trackies to this date, what am I, an idiot? Yes, yes, I'm an idiot. A complete idiot, oh my Lord.'

It was so stupid, really. This morning I had woken up in Milo's arms, we had lazily rolled around in bed for an hour before making pancakes, which we ate on the couch while watching a quiz show, making up ridiculous answers to the questions asked. Then, we had talked about going on a proper date, and made a booking for a disgustingly opulent restaurant without too much thought (since I was paying, of course). Soon, Milo had left to go home, to 'get ready'. Get ready.

Milo was getting ready, so I had to do the same. It was only at a moment like this that I realised that I owned nothing other than hoodies, jeans and tracksuit pants. I mean, I had my formal suit tucked away in a cloth bag at the back of my walk-in wardrobe, and my reusable funeral suit that had been worn a total of four times when my grandparents passed, but other than that I had nil. Nothing. Nada.

So, it took a speedy early-afternoon trip to the shops to buy a date outfit. Or ten. I was sure that I would get a speeding fine, but I had made it back home in time to go through a brand-spanking new First Date Prep Session.

I bathed, used all of the fancy skin products my mum had amassed in her quest to stay radiant and youthful forever, moisturised the fuck out of my skin, shaved (more than my face), did my hair (burning my wrist on my mum's hair curler in the process) and smell-testing all of the expensive colognes I had been gifted by estranged aunts and uncles who didn't know me well at all.

I got changed into my new crisp white shirt, some black jeans that really hugged my ass and thighs (that had both filled out quite a bit after my brief stint as Black Dove, because surprisingly, flying really worked the glutes). I scrubbed shoe polish onto my black leather boots to remove the scuffs, and put on my 'fun socks' for a little personality - they were baby pink and covered in little dicks, a present from Gia that I had appreciated far more than whatever $400 cologne my uncle from Paris bought me for my 13th birthday.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought that I maybe over did it a little. It wasn't that I didn't look good - I did, I looked really good, in fact, but would Milo think I looked good? He was used to seeing me either naked or in sweats, what if he thought this was weird?