The first time I noticed was the nail polish—soft blush peeking out when my neighbor waved hello over the mailboxes. Cute. The second time was a quick, breathless ask on the landing: “Ella… could you—um—help me pick something to wear?”

My smile answered before my words did. “Yes. Obviously. Come in.”

We started with coffee and a mirror. I lined up shades on the vanity the way a florist lines up peonies—petal pinks, berry gloss, a classic red for drama. He watched me choose like each color had a story. It did. I dabbed a little balm, then showed him how to do the soft tap-tap with the ring finger. Illuminated. Gorgeous.

“Okay,” I said, hands on hips. “Closet raid.”

We built an outfit the way I build a fantasy: layers, balance, a little wink. Sheer black tights, a high-waist skirt with movement, a silky blouse that felt like good manners on skin. He laughed at his reflection, then looked again—longer, softer. I moved behind him and lifted the hair away from his face so he could see the curve of his jaw. “There you are.”

Out came my brush belt: a swipe of brow gel, a whisper of liner, mascara I trust with my life, and blush placed where the happy lives. I talked the whole time—breath, posture, shoulders down, chin tilted just enough to catch the light. He mirrored me in the glass, and we both smiled the same smile.

Then we went shopping. Girlfriend mode, full send. Shoe sizes, hem lengths, fabrics that don’t fight back. We took over a dressing room with giggles and zippers; I brought in options like a stylist with an agenda—one piece that felt safe, one that felt brave, and one that felt like the future. He turned, the skirt swung, I clapped. “That one.”

We made a ritual of it: Saturday coffee, boutique laps, a little street-mirror strut to see outfits in real light. He practiced walking in heels while I set the pace like a metronome; I adjusted a strap, smoothed a collar, tucked a curl behind his ear when nerves tried to sneak in. “Breathe,” I said. “Now look at you.”

Somewhere between lipstick lessons and our third shoe store, the vibe shifted from neighbor to girlfriend energy—the kind that means you can text, “Emergency: What top?” and I’ll be there in seven minutes with three. We learned each other’s tells: I know when he needs a deep breath; he knows when I need a victory twirl.

And when he asked, shy and glowing, how to be… better with intimacy, I poured two waters and curled my feet under me on the couch. We talked like grown-ups with sparkles: enthusiasm, praise, checking in, listening for the little cues that say “more” or “slow.” Warmth over worry. Presence over perfection. I told him the real secret is attention—the generous kind that makes someone feel chosen. He nodded like I’d handed him a map.

By the end of the night, there was lipstick on his coffee cup and confidence in his shoulders. We planned next weekend’s run—new tights, a silk scarf, maybe a blazer with that just-right weight. He hugged me at the door, cheek flushed, smile bright.

“Text me when you get home,” I said, because girlfriend rules are sacred. He did. A selfie, too—soft liner, glossy mouth, a caption that read: “I think I found me.” I sent back a pink heart and three words that fit the moment perfectly:

“Good girl energy.”