- Joined
- May 25, 2025
- Messages
- 7
Yesterday, after my internship, I was walking back when I saw a beautiful, mixed-race girl standing at the bus stop. Something about her looked familiar. A minute later, she turned to me and started talking as if we already knew each other.
Turns out, we live in the same apartment building.
She’s a Business and Mathematics undergrad, and she also knows Matheus from my university. The connection clicked instantly, smooth, easy, natural.
We talked about her internship, what she liked about it, and how it made her feel more independent.
I said something about ouro building:
“Yeah. Living alone is good... you feel free.”
She smiled. Translation: not dating. I took that as a green light.
She kept inching closer. I touched her gently as we talked, light pressure on her arm, her back, her side. No resistance, only warmth. Then she sat right next to me, thigh to thigh, and leaned into me, saying:
“I’m so tired today.”
Her voice was soft. Intimate. Like she wanted to fall into someone.
Under the streetlamp, I caught her eyes, green, glowing. I told her:
“Your eyes shine like Morgan Freeman’s.”
She laughed.
“My mom has blue eyes like yours,” she said.
We kept talking even as the bus came. She sat beside me again, close. I teased her:
“So, are you one of those girls who walks around the avenue or just scrolls all day?”
She grinned:
“I don’t scroll much. I like reading.”
That was the hook. She started listing names, Fernando Pessoa, Clarice Lispector, Dostoiévski. My heart lit up. I smiled and said something deep about Pessoa. She looked at me like she hadn’t met a guy like that before, eyes wide, lips parting a bit.
I leaned in and said:
“I’ve got a Pessoa book in my room… just for you.”
She blushed hard.
After dinner together, I walked her to the apartment. She gave me her number. A little later that night, I dropped by with the book.
She opened the door in pajamas. Her room was clean, softly lit, welcoming. She was showing me her books, hands slightly shaky. Then i whispered:
“You don’t have to be nervous… it’s okay.”
She turned, looked at me with those eyes, and kissed me.
I kissed her back, picked her up, laid her on the bed. It unfolded naturally, no hesitation. She was sensual, present, responsive.
A same-day lay that flowed from casual talk to deep connection—from a bus stop to Pessoa to bed—all wrapped in green eyes and city light.
Turns out, we live in the same apartment building.
She’s a Business and Mathematics undergrad, and she also knows Matheus from my university. The connection clicked instantly, smooth, easy, natural.
We talked about her internship, what she liked about it, and how it made her feel more independent.
I said something about ouro building:
“Yeah. Living alone is good... you feel free.”
She smiled. Translation: not dating. I took that as a green light.
She kept inching closer. I touched her gently as we talked, light pressure on her arm, her back, her side. No resistance, only warmth. Then she sat right next to me, thigh to thigh, and leaned into me, saying:
“I’m so tired today.”
Her voice was soft. Intimate. Like she wanted to fall into someone.
Under the streetlamp, I caught her eyes, green, glowing. I told her:
“Your eyes shine like Morgan Freeman’s.”
She laughed.
“My mom has blue eyes like yours,” she said.
We kept talking even as the bus came. She sat beside me again, close. I teased her:
“So, are you one of those girls who walks around the avenue or just scrolls all day?”
She grinned:
“I don’t scroll much. I like reading.”
That was the hook. She started listing names, Fernando Pessoa, Clarice Lispector, Dostoiévski. My heart lit up. I smiled and said something deep about Pessoa. She looked at me like she hadn’t met a guy like that before, eyes wide, lips parting a bit.
I leaned in and said:
“I’ve got a Pessoa book in my room… just for you.”
She blushed hard.
After dinner together, I walked her to the apartment. She gave me her number. A little later that night, I dropped by with the book.
She opened the door in pajamas. Her room was clean, softly lit, welcoming. She was showing me her books, hands slightly shaky. Then i whispered:
“You don’t have to be nervous… it’s okay.”
She turned, looked at me with those eyes, and kissed me.
I kissed her back, picked her up, laid her on the bed. It unfolded naturally, no hesitation. She was sensual, present, responsive.
A same-day lay that flowed from casual talk to deep connection—from a bus stop to Pessoa to bed—all wrapped in green eyes and city light.
