A/N: Welcome to Delia's first official one-on-one date! Big thanks to KJ for supplying the rage room idea! Things get a little *spicy* near the end. Most of it is off-screen, but I would say it pushes the T rating. If you're sensitive to that kind of thing, stop reading after, "Nice to know all my rage is good for something" - skipping it won't affect comprehension of the chapter :)

Also, forgive me for my Google Translate Spanish.

The Thing About First Dates

The thing about first dates was, they were hella awkward. Or, that's what Delia assumed as she tore apart her room in a manic panic.

When she got the note from Andre after The Report wrapped, she thought she was being punked. It was like something out of a movie, a folded up piece of lined paper showing up on her seat, a messy 'to Princess Cordelia' scrawled on the front. Inside, the paper contained a simple question: Date tonight? and a set of boxes marked 'yes' or 'no' to check. Delia's first impulse was to check 'no'. She had spent the last hour biting her nails, waiting for something terrible to go down on set, but not only had Elodie upheld her end of the bargain and let Delia off the hook, The Report was a hit. Even she was laughing at Ezra's stories and Teo's attempts to make a tent out of stage curtains mic rods.

Despite the pleasant turn in events, the emotional rollercoaster would have been enough for Delia to call it a night. She must have been possessed by a demon (or her mother) because the box she ended up checking was 'yes'. She didn't know where she was going or when this was happening, if Andre was flying by the seat of his pants or if he had something cringey planned, only that the note she sent with her maid had agreed - in writing! - to go on a date.

She had no idea what to wear on a date!

Left to her own devices, Delia threw on a pair of light-wash jeans with tears down the legs, a pair of fishnets underneath, an old grey tee, and her beat up converse. She didn't even bother to do anything with her hair or her makeup. What was the point? She had no one to impress, and she wasn't going to risk anything she actually liked getting ruined if the date took a turn towards messy.

A knock on the door let her know that she was right to change immediately. Andre wasted no time.

Andre stood outside her door wearing an oversized black hoodie over a paint-splattered white crop top that showed off an impressive set of abs, a pair of dark skinny jeans, and Air Jordans. Diamond studs sparkled against the dark of his skin. Eyeliner cut a fierce teal line against his dark brown eyes. Usually Delia didn't find men her height attractive, but Andre...Andre was hot. Like, unfairly hot. He zipped his hoodie up as they walked through the halls, but Delia was already imagining excuses to get him to unzip it as soon as they got somewhere private.

Unfortunately, there was nothing private about a palace car.

They sat on opposite sides of the back seat, whether from the nerves of being on a date or the nerves from being watched by the two guards in the front seat a mystery. Andre instructed the driver to pull around the back of the building. The car hit no less than two pot holes and nearly rammed into a chain link fence. When Delia got out, she tripped over someone's discarded water bottle. She had half a mind to get back in the car, crop top or no crop top.

The bad decision cortex of her brain must have been in control, because she actually followed Andre into the nondescript brick building. They walked up to the front desk and rang the bell. A ratty, scrawny guy dressed in all black sauntered up to the desk. Delia let Andre handle the logistics, and while the boys talked, she busied herself looking around the lobby. Long story short: it wasn't much better on the inside. Maybe less litter.

Seriously, how did Andre get this place approved by security?

Things didn't get better when they walked down the hall and the ratty guy thrust a sledgehammer in Delia's hand.

"What's this for?" she asked, but the ratty guy was too busy handing out hazmat suits and safety waivers.

None of this fazed Andre. He stepped into the suit and zipped up the yellow rubber like it was the most normal thing in the world. Delia was slower to put hers on. It smelled weird, and she wasn't sure why parts of it were wet.

"You good?" Andre asked, picking the hammer back up and giving it to her. It was harder to grip now that she had gloves on.

"Just promise you didn't bring me here to kill me." She was only half kidding.

"Trust me, you're gonna love this."

The ratty guy led them to a door emblazoned with caution signs. It looked like many someones had taken the sledgehammer to the door, dents pocketing the thick metal in random patterns. Whatever liked behind that door could not be good.

The door opened, and nothing could have prepared Delia for the mess that lied inside the room. Tables upon tables were heaped with random objects: computers and vases and televisions and so much more. Remnants of other random things lied scattered at Delia's feet. Now she knew what the suits were for, rubber soles of knee-high boots bounding harmlessly off of fallen glass and sharp plastic. The greasy guy left them alone to take it all in, the door falling shut behind him with a heavy thud.

"What is this?" She had finally had enough guessing.

"It's a rage room," Andre explained, but that explained nothing at all. Delia kept staring, clueless, until Andre elaborated. "You know, one of those places where you pay to break as many things as you like, for fun."

Delis looked around the room, taking it all in. She had always wanted to try something like this. When therapy failed, when counseling failed, when marijuana failed to calm her, she thought about potential outlets. She was never brave enough to broach the subject with her parents. Now, standing in the middle of an urban, recreational war zone, she could hardly believe it.

"You mean I can wreck all of this?"

"We can wreck all of it," Andre stressed, shouldering his own sledgehammer. "I'm not letting you have all the fun."

To drive the point home, he let his sledgehammer fly into the nearest thing: a filing cabinet. The metal dented with an almighty clang. Andre hit it so hard that the top drawer came flying out, warped metal unable to slot nicely back into place.

Delia's fingers started to twitch. She wanted to hit something, felt the urge to destroy. She picked her sledgehammer up like a baseball bat, relishing the heavy weight of the head. The key to this was rage, and Delia had rage to spare. She eyed a set of untouched cabinets in the corner, a set of old dishes within - the kind of thing she saw all over her parents' perfect palace.

The hammer connected with a glass-doored cabinet, shattering both wood and memories...

The restaurant was half-full, the way all things were at two on a week day. The working class was still busy toiling at their office cubicles, but the rich had time to meander through late lunches with their book clubs or golf buddies or personal accountants. This was not the kind of place Delia would pick if she had the chance: somewhere with high ceilings, chandeliers, used actual china, and lacked prices on the menu. But this was Poppy's choice in Poppy's town, so Delia refrained from calling Poppy a spoiled snob and graciously accepted the invitation for tea. Business casual dress was required for seating, which meant Delia was terribly uncomfortable in her jersey shift dress. She kept fiddling with the hem as she waited for Poppy to arrive.

Thankfully, she didn't have to wait long. Poppy came strolling in, bug-eyed sunglasses over her eyes, her hair thrown up in a bizarre array of clips and scrunchies. Instead of saying hello or landing her signature cheek kisses, Poppy threw her stuff down on the chair next to Delia and wasted no time ordering herself a glass of wine.

Delia was about to ask what was up, when Poppy blurted, "Whatever is going on between you and Theodora's sister needs to stop."

"What?" That came out of nowhere. Delia hadn't even told Poppy about Misa. How did she know anything...and why did she sound so pissed off about it? "I don't see how that's any of your business"

"Come on, Delia," Poppy said with a roll of her eyes, but she wouldn't meet Delia's. It was like she was embarrassed to be with her. "You know what this looks like for people like us. People talk. The press talks. I'm just looking out for you."

That set Delia's nerves on edge. She'd never been in the papers before, used to going unnoticed. She wasn't sure if she liked all this theoretical attention. "And what are they saying?"

"You know...stuff." Poppy waved her hand and downed half the wine in one go. She was being frustratingly vague.

"No, I really don't know."

"Oh come off it," Poppy snapped, startling Delia. This was so different than any other interaction they'd had before, it was giving Delia whiplash. Poppy fiddled with the butterfly barrette in her hair until it lost a rhinestone. Then, she took a steeling breath, and finally looked Delia in the eye. "It's fine if this is a fling. Lord knows I've made questionable decisions when it comes to men. But you've had your little rebellion, had your bit of fun. Now the joke is getting stale."

Is that what everyone thought this was? A joke? A fling? Is that all anyone would ever think? If she brought Misa home as she so desperately wanted, to parade around the palace with Misa on her arm and proudly say, 'yes, this is my girlfriend, Artemisia Davies,' would anyone take her seriously? Would she even be wanted? Poppy was supposed to be her best friend, the one person who accepted Delia for who she was, inside and out. And there she was, staring at Delia like she was a shit stain on her Jimmy Choos.

"And if it's not a joke? If it's not a fling?" Delia asked, scared to know the answer.

"Then I can't be friends with a royal slag," Poppy said, blunt as ever with a tight, unfriendly smile.

"Is that really what you think of me?"

"Not what I think of you, what I think of her. Everyone knows Artemisia has a reputation; it's a running joke that she's fucked half the staff in her department, and probably half the world. I just thought you were smarter than to fall for her bull." She reached out and placed a hand briefly over Delia's own before snatching it back, like being so close to Delia would bring her disease. "Nothing personal, love. But if you are gonna parade that commoner around and expect people to cheer, you've got a rude awakening ahead of you. You're going to drag everyone around you down with you, and I do have some sense of self-preservation."

"Don't you think that's rather shallow?" Delia asked, anger rising her in veins, making her flush an ugly pink. "I don't care who Misa's been with. We all have a past, and we have all made mistakes."

Poppy's eyebrows rose to her meticulous hairline as she heard everything Delia wasn't saying. "You would rather be with that social-climbing slag than friends with me?"

Some friend you are, Delia wanted to say, grieving for all she thought they were. Ever since Delia was small, she always had Poppy. In Poppy, Delia had found a kindred spirit. As children, they formed a fast friendship over the crazy worlds they invented in their heads, their love of princesses and ballgowns and magic. As they grew up, fairytale worlds turned into courts and councils, ballgowns turned into avant garde fashion, and princesses turned into princes...at least for Poppy. Delia had thought about coming out to Poppy, taking her by the hand and making her sit on the edge of that ridiculous king sized bed of hers in Buckingham and saying 'I'm bisexual, I still love you like a sister, and I hope this doesn't change anything.'

Clearly, it changed everything. Delia saw her friendship wither away before her very eyes, and all because Delia had the audacity to be with a girl.

"No, we're not friends, Poppy," Delia said, her voice scarily calm for the furious wave of tears threatening to clog her throat and spill out her eyes. She didn't know where this anger was coming from nor how to stop it, only how to spread it. "We're not even equals. I'm a princess, and your 'social-climbing slag' of a father fucked his way to the top of England. So I can see whoever I like, whenever I like, and I don't need permission from a fucking hypocrite like you!"

The dining room grew uncomfortably quiet. All eyes were on their table, where Delia was red in the face and near shouting by the end. Poppy was red too, flushed with embarrassment and fury. Delia immediately felt bad, wanted to take back every word, but she kept her mouth shut. If Poppy couldn't take it, she shouldn't dish it, and she sure as hell needed to be checked...just not that viscerally...and publicly.

"Poppy..." Delia said, shame trickling in where anger once lived.

Poppy must not have heard her, not over her quick and noisy departure from the table.

"Tati byes!" she said as she scooped up her purse and ducked her head, hurrying out of the restaurant before the press could hound her. Poppy would get her headline, finally, just not in the way she wanted. She would forever be the D-list royal who got in a screaming match with the most unproblematic Princess of Illéa.

Delia remembered the way she cried, her teardrops running, falling, shattering -

Glass fell to the floor, a cacophony of crystalline patters on the cement floor. Delia breathed heavily, like she had run a marathon. She must have put a lot of power behind her swing, or blacked out in the process. Because when she finally looked up, the cabinet was beaten to splinters, every single dish in pieces.

Andre stood off to the side, watching. He ran a hand over his face, his eyes a tad fearful but mostly impressed.

"I have never seen so much rage in such a tiny body."

Delia didn't comment, didn't want to agree or disagree with him. Either way, she looked bad. Too much rage, she was a psycho. To say she had none would mean denial.

They both decided to play a game. When Andre picked up a glass paperweight and threw it at her, Delia missed by a long shot. When she picked up a lamp and threw it at him, he bat the thing with ease, tiny pieces of glass scattering at his feet.

"That's not fair. You got a scholarship for throwing things," Delia pouted.

"I'm a wide receiver."

"Same thing."

Andre shook his head and muttered under his breath, "Es bueno que seas linda."

"Gracias," Delia replied, much to Andre's shock. "What? My sister married a Latino and you didn't expect me to pick up the language?"

Andre continued to stare. He was doing a lot of that lately, like he didn't know who he was looking at. "It's a lot to process right now."

"Oh, and btw, I know I'm cute. I expect future compliments to be a little more creative, even if used as insults."

That got a laugh out of Andre. Delia took that as a win.

"So, breaking things. As an activity, on a scale of one to ten, how does it rate?" Delia asked, taking her sledgehammer to a coffee table. It had been mostly destroyed by whoever had been in the room before, but hacking away at its legs proved cathartic. She really should have stretched beforehand; her arms would be feeling the workout tomorrow.

"Beats the hell out of hanging out in the palace all day and night, wondering if you'll ever hit any of us up."

"Really?" That was...news. "You guys just sit around and...wait?"

"Well, not all the times. Sometimes we gotta get up real early and do those little history lessons," Andre backpedalled, realizing that he had made the guys look a little desperate. "Did you know that the first ever Selection was a total set up, and that Damon dude was just using those girls to have some kind of giant orgy? Wild shit, man. They don't teach that in schools."

"Yeah, I actually did know that. My family history is more than fucked," Delia said wryly, eyeing up her next target: an old piano. "So do you actually like parading around the palace with your little book bags and homework assignments? It seems so fucking juvenile. I hated that one-on-one bullshit."

Memories of personal tutors and impossible expectations came flooding back as she bashed into the piano, the instrument bleating out its own off-key funeral song. Andre flinched at the noise before joining in.

"It's not that bad. Reminds me of when I was homeschooled, but yeah, you're right. Forgot how much the constant hovering sucks."

"You were homeschooled?"

It was hard to believe that anyone would choose to be the center of scrupulous attention. Andre seemed the type to like to hang back with the crowd.

"Yeah. I have dyslexia and got bullied a lot in middle school. My parents thought it would be a good change of pace. And they were right."

"What made you go back?"

"I really missed the cafeteria's tater tots."

A joke. Delia could do jokes. She smiled. "Damn, those sound delish. I don't know what I'm missing."

"You really don't."

"So, what do you study now?"

"Sociology. I want to be a social worker, eventually."

"When you're not throwing balls."

"Hey, a free education's a free education," Andre said with a shrug, throwing the sledgehammer over his shoulder and wrapping his other arm around it so it rest between his shoulder-blades. There was no way that was accidental, not the way he was posing. "What would you want to do if you weren't a princess?"

"It's not like I graduated top of my class in folding napkin swans and hand-waving," Delia scoffed with a roll of her eyes. "My tutors gave me good enough grades. I could have gone to college if I wanted. I just didn't want to."

"Why not?"

"No point." This was not the road Delia wanted to do down, not when it was still bitter in her mind and heart. She smashed an old radio, then the case of cassettes that came with it. "I learned real early on that it doesn't matter what I want. The crown always takes precedence. And the crown wants me to keep my mouth shut, smile for cameras, wear pretty dresses, and pop out two to four royal babies by the time I'm thirty."

Andre frowned. "That's a pretty shitty way to look at things."

"It's how things have always been and will continue to be long after I'm dead." There was no point in fighting the system, not any more. "I tried the whole rebellion thing. If you haven't noticed, it failed pretty spectacularly."

"Oh, you're not still doing it now?" Andre asked, bold and cocky now that they were more comfortable with each other. Delia looked at him, genuinely bewildered at the gentle confrontation. "Come on. We're not stupid. Everyone knows you're trying to sabotage this Selection. We're weeks in this thing and this is the first date you've agreed to that wasn't set up by your sister, who is, by the way, a very scary lady."

"Yeah, well, not everyone can be as perfect as Elodie. She likes to remind me of that every chance she gets."

"I don't think that's what she's doing."

"You don't know my sister," Delia snapped, meaner than she meant to be, but her sister was another sensitive, bitter topic.

"You're right. I don't. But I do have siblings, and usually they just want what's best for me, even if they go about it the wrong way," Andre said, calm and smooth as ever. Delia didn't deserve his kindness, but he moved on quickly. "Maybe she's just stressed."

"She's always stressed. That's like, her middle name. Elodie Stressed to the Max Schreave."

"She didn't take her husband's name?"

"Nope. It's a royal thing. As the first-born heir she has to 'maintain the supremacy of the Schreave line' or something. But Essie's name is hyphenated. Make that make sense." Delia threw her hands up in the air and did a twirl. Her hammer sunk into the wall, drywall crumbling around the hole. "Me, on the other hand, no one gives a shit about me. I could be Cordelia Thompson tomorrow and no one would bat an eye."

Her hammer was stuck. Try as she might, she couldn't pull hard enough to dislodge it. Not until Andre stepped behind her, a firm and warm line along her back, and placed his strong hands on top of hers. Together, they pulled the hammer out, assessing the damage to the wall Delia was seventy-five percent sure was not part of the smashing menu. She couldn't focus on the cost of damages or being thrown out, not with Andre so close and so tall above her, those brown eyes staring straight into hers, that white smile devious and flirtatious.

"That doesn't sound half-bad. Don't be giving me any ideas."

"Let's wait until after the first date before anyone proposes marriage." Delia took a breath and stepped away, looking for another distraction. The pickings were very slim now, nearly everything reduced to rubble. "Besides, I think I have to be the one to ask you. Royal supremacy and all that."

"I don't mind. Andre Schreave has a nice ring to it too."

Delia snorted. "It'll be a cold day in Hell before I get on one knee."

Andre didn't laugh as hard this time. Delia turned around, wondering what she said wrong. The mood sobered as he said, "While we're on the topic of gender roles, I did wanna talk to you about something."

"Yeah?"

"Would it be cool if you and everyone else started using 'they' and 'them' to refer to me instead of 'he' and 'his'? Those are my preferred pronouns."

"Oh shit, yeah. Sorry about that."

"It's cool. No one asked so I didn't say."

"Anything else I should know?"

Andre scratched their head, a guilty smile on their face. "I stole your sister's clothes?"

Delia's jaw dropped.

"You are the pashmina thief? I knew there was a reason I liked you," Delia said with a smirk, unable to stop the happiness diffusing through her body. "Tell me about your siblings."

"I'm the oldest of four. The younger ones are triplets, all eighteen. Kenshin's real smart, always got his head in a book. He and Kamala can get real insightful with each other, leave everybody else feeling like they're tripping out. Kamala's the only girl and everybody's fashion guru; nobody leaves the house without looking like a god or goddess. I guess I'm closest to Khalil. He's always wanted to be like me, do football like me, be around me. Mom always says that we are like two Energizer bunnies, always go! go! go! go! go! Drives her nuts."

"They sound nice."

"Yeah they're alright." Andre shrugged, then they smiled real smooth as they took her sledgehammer from her. "If you keep me around long enough, you can see for yourself."

And that...that was true, wasn't it? At some point, Delia was going to have to meet Andre's family, their parents, their siblings. She'd have to meet Dante's parents, and Ezra's, and Sidney's, and so many more. She'd have to make good impressions. She'd have to be on her best behavior, tell them things she liked about their sons, smile at them, actually act like she was in love.

The ratty guy's voice came over the intercom and announced their time was up, saving Delia from any more traumatic revelations. They stripped off their hazmat suits and handed in their sledgehammers. Despite the burn in Delia's muscles and the ache in her heart, she had actually enjoyed the experience. Not that she would admit that to the smug-faced, ratty bastard.

"Oooooof I am starved," Andre said with a stretch, rubbing at their stomach. "You?"

On cue, Delia's stomach started rumbling. "I could always eat."

Outside, the night had turned crisp and cool. Delia cursed her lack of foresight; she would kill for a sweater right about now. Thankfully, the trip to get food was a short one. This area of town was always hopping with fresh new things, always jumping on the latest trends and fads. Apparently the new fad this season was outdoor living and eating, so there was an impromptu food truck court set up around the block, complete with picnic tablets arranged around space heaters lit by string lights. The whole thing gave off an eclectic, cluttered vibe, but Delia wouldn't have cared if she ate out of someone's garage at this point. She was starving.

One of the food trucks was selling paella. Another advertised make your own taco and margarita combos. Another served custom sandwiches served on waffles. But Andre bypassed all that gentrified hipster crap.

"Street food is the best food. That's facts."

Andre walked up to a vendor with a small stainless steel cart and ordered two chili dogs, fully loaded. The food magically appeared from the bowels of the cart two second later, and there was so much stuffed in the tiny cardboard boat that Delia had no idea where to start. Was she supposed to eat this monstrosity with her hands?

"I'm pretty sure this has enough grease to clog all of my major arteries."

"Just shut up and eat your dog," Andre said with a roll of their eyes.

Delia bit the bullet and dove in fingers-first. It wasn't that she'd never eaten food with her hands before, it was that there was just so much food going everywhere. Eating something like this with her hands was the opposite of lady-like. God forbid if someone managed to snap a photo of her shoving her face full of chili, mouth open wide and brown stains on her shirt. Elodie would have a stroke.

All of those thoughts flew out the window at the first bite of sheer heaven. Delia moaned around her chili dog, and she didn't give a single fuck at how erotic it probably sounded to the older couple passing them on the street. They could stare all they wanted. Delia couldn't be bothered to care.

"Mmmmhmmm what did I tell you?" Andre said with humorous satisfaction.

"Grease is so good."

They picked a table and finished off their food in silence, just enjoying each other's company and the atmosphere. No one bothered them, no one even seemed to recognize them which was a miracle. For a brief, perfect moment, Delia felt completely and wholly normal.

The car ride back to the palace was blissfully silent as well. Andre let their hand rest, open and relaxed in the middle seat. Delia found it hard to ignore, and half way through, ended up threading her fingers in between Andre's, their palm wonderfully warm in hers. Their hands remained connected until they reached the front steps of the palace and Andre got out to open Delia's door for her. Usually Delia hated that chivalrous bullshit, but from Andre, she found she didn't mind. It was sweet. Andre was sweet.

They should have parted when they reached the floor the Selected were staying on. They should have left it there and said goodnight. Andre definitely should not have followed her all the way to her door, even if they were simply walking her 'home'. They both stopped in front of the closed door, resting shoulders on opposite sides of the frame, facing each other.

"Far as first dates go, how'd this one do?" Andre asked, genuinely curious, and, Delia noted, a little bit hopeful.

"Dunno," Delia shrugged. Time to be honest for a change. "This was the first time I'd ever been on a date, so, there's that."

"Shit," Andre cursed under their breath. "If I knew that, I'd've taken you some place a little classier, thrown out all the stops."

"I'm glad you didn't. I had fun."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

When did her voice get so quiet? When Andre start looking at her lips? And when had they gotten so close, bodies pushed off the doorframe to meet near the doorknobs, brass digging into Delia's hip in the most uncomfortable way but she just didn't care.

"Man, I'm trying real hard not to fall too fast." Andre bit their bottom lip and shook their head. "Last time I was in a serious relationship, I told them I wanted to marry them. They weren't down for that."

"And so you thought you'd try again and enter the Selection, where the end goal is marriage or nothing?"

"To be honest I just needed some space from my home life." Andre shoved their hands in their pockets and gave Delia a look like they were half-serious, half-joking. "You're cute and all, but you're one seriously fucked up little mama. You know that, right?"

Delia sighed, looking at Andre's cute little smirk as they laughed at her, and then it hit her. She could fall for this man. She could honest to God fall for Andre Thompson.

"Want to come in?" she offered, the revelation filling her with compulsive energy. "I don't want the night to end just yet."

Maybe that was a step too far. Maybe Andre wasn't ready for that. Was Delia ready for that? Her body said yes but her mind was a vortex of swirling contradiction.

Thank God, Andre didn't question Delia, didn't say a damn word. They stepped into Delia's room, a chaotic space of dirty clothes and random clutter. She had never been ashamed of her room, not when she knew that this was what a teenage girl's room was supposed to look like, no matter how often Auden insisted that cleanliness was next to godliness. Now, as she watched Andre take in ever unfiltered detail, Delia felt nervous. Ashamed.

"Wow, that's really something," they said, their eyes focused on the far wall. She didn't know what Andre saw in the swirling mess of color and words, but it made them stop and think.

Delia hadn't lied to Andre earlier, but she had forgotten about the paintings, the collages made out of paper mâche and old magazine cut outs. The ridiculous - juvenile, Hayden once called them - art projects of a girl whose biggest dream was to have her own gallery at the Met.

What a fucking joke.

Delia flopped down on the only clean sofa and Andre flopped down next to her, not an inch of space between them. Andre threw one arm around the back of the couch, their fingers brushing the hairs at the nape of her neck.

"You've got a talent for this sort of thing."

"What? Destruction?"

She remembered all the ripping, tearing, hot glue gunning that went into those projects. Hours of sweat and tears and burns, all for fun. Dad thought it wasn't productive enough, and Elodie agreed. You can't waste your time playing with colors. Turns out she could waste her time doing plenty of other things. On the spectrum of things she'd done, painting was the least worrisome.

"Nah, forreal. There's a lot of cool elements going on. I've seen professionals who can't touch this level of artistry."

The sincerity is what struck Delia the most. She was so used to everything she did being called useless, a mistake, a fuck up. Having praise tossed her way caused her brain to short-circuit.

"Nice to know all my rage is good for something."

Delia turned to look at Andre, and they were so close all it really took was an upward tilt of her head. Andre was already looking at her, God knows for how long, those dark brown eyes nearly black as they flicked across her face, watching, waiting. Delia knew what that look meant, what that pink tongue darting out to wet lips while staring at hers meant. She had seen that look dozens times, had made it a goal to elicit that reaction in every late night booty call and one night stand. But to see it come from Andre had her stomach turning and her heart racing. Her pulse was so loud she could hear the whoosh in her ears.

Did she want to lean forward and close the tiny gap that remained?

Yes.

Yes she did.

She wasn't sure who leaned in first - if she did or they did - but then they were kissing. And kissing, and kissing, and kissing. Until nothing else existed besides the feel of Andre's lips on hers, and their chest, firm and hard, straining under her hands, and Andre's hands wandering down her back. Goosebumps erupted everywhere Andre touched, and Delia thanked every single God she knew that Andre had insisted on wearing that crop top so she could finally, finally put hands on those glorious abs. She wanted to do so much more than touch; she wanted to put her lips on Andre, her tongue -

In one move, Delia managed to straddle Andre's lap and thread both hands through their hair. It was short and thick, but just enough to get a grip on and pull. Delia felt drunk without consuming a drop of alcohol.

"Do you have a condom?"

Andre nodded and reached for their wallet with fumbling hands.

"Great. I have a bed."

Delia got up from the couch and pulled Andre after her, the rest of their night lost in a tangle of bad jokes and bed sheets.