Blinded

CHAPTER 6

KAYLA POV

I don't think I ever realized how fast time could move until I met Andre.

One moment, he was just a fine, cocky boy with perfect teeth and a diamond-studded watch, calling me ma and teasing me with that sly smirk. And now? He was someone who made space for me in his world... piece by piece. One date at a time.

It started slow. Not cliché slow, but thoughtful slow. The kind of slow that makes you second-guess if a boy like him—hood-sweet and dangerously smooth—could actually be this consistent. That first weekend, before the chaos of late-night parties, braids half-done, and Insta going crazy, Andre surprised me.

He pulled up in this sleek, matte black BMW, playing Larry June low enough so we could talk. I thought we were just about to grab food or something chill, but he kept driving, not telling me where. I hated that. But I lowkey liked it too. I kept glancing at him, trying to guess where we were going, but he just kept one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh like it belonged there. He kept calling me ma, the "you'll see" in his tone dripping with ego.

Turns out, he took me to a rooftop drive-in theater—one I didn't even know existed in LA. He had blankets, snacks, and even a mini projector set up in case we didn't like the movie playing. Who thinks of that? He let me crawl on top of him, my arms wrapped around his neck while I laughed at the dumb dialogue on screen. His cologne mixed with the city night made my body hum—warm and light like the whole night was wrapped in gold foil.

After that, things picked up.

We went on a hike one morning—me, this full-glam, city girl trying not to twist my ankle while Andre teased me the whole time. "I should've brought a lil' stroller for you, huh?" he joked, catching me every time I slipped a little. But when we reached the top, sweaty and out of breath, he wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered, "Damn... this view don't even touch yours." I didn't even roll my eyes. Not this time.

Another night, he told me to wear something sexy but classy. I wore this mocha-brown, body-hugging two-piece with a slit so high I had to tape it down. We ended up at this bougie jazz lounge downtown. I wasn't used to that vibe—low lights, velvet everything, couples sipping wine. But Andre blended in like he belonged there, nodding his head to the rhythm and ordering me this fruity cocktail with edible flowers in it. I swear he didn't stop touching my knee the whole time.

We had hood dates too. Like sitting in his car with takeout, listening to him rap under his breath while I scrolled through Instagram. He'd pull up to random spots with a view and we'd just talk. Like really talk. About how he never knew his pops, how he was tired of always watching his back, how he felt like he needed to make money now or he'd fall behind. I'd just listen, resting my head on his shoulder while the city lit up beneath us.

There was one day I'll never forget. He drove me out to Malibu on a random Tuesday. I was grumpy 'cause I had content to shoot and my hair wasn't fully laid. But when I stepped out of the car, barefoot in the sand, hair blowing wild, he pulled out his phone and said, "You don't even need filters, ma. You look like art."

He booked a private picnic with candles stuck in the sand and everything. Charcuterie, sparkling juice, a playlist that kept switching between Sade and Brent Faiyaz. We made out under the stars and I let him see parts of me I didn't even mean to share. Not my body—my real stuff. The parts of me I usually kept buried under glam, gloss, and soft smiles.

And then there were the random Target runs that turned into pillow fights in the bedding aisle. Me yelling, him laughing. Us grabbing snacks we didn't need just to sit in the parking lot, watching people and making up fake stories about their lives.

One night, he took me to this underground art exhibit—hidden behind a bodega in East LA. I swear it felt like stepping into another universe. Neon lights, graffiti on canvases, Black art dripping in power. Andre said he wanted to show me things that inspired him, and that night, I got it. I saw the layers beneath his street demeanor. The way he noticed color and mood. How observant he really was. He watched the art but looked at me more.

After every date, he never let me go home right away. He'd drive slower, take the long way. Sometimes, we'd end up parked outside my house, the AC on low, his thumb tracing the inside of my palm while we just... lingered. Like neither of us wanted the night to end.

And that's when it shifted.

One night, after another perfect date—us eating shrimp tacos off a food truck, him kissing my shoulder in between bites—I asked him, "What are we doing?" He looked at me for a long time, jaw set. Then he pulled me closer, whispered against my lips, "I want you, Kayla. All the way. Not just for now."

And I said yes.

Just like that, I was his girlfriend. It didn't feel like some big moment. It felt like slipping into something I'd already been wearing.

We started spending more time at his house after that. The dates slowed a bit, but the energy didn't. He still did cute things. Left me notes with stupid jokes. Picked up my favorite candy. Brushed my curls out with his fingers and told me my hair smelled like heaven.

But I also started noticing the edges of his world... creeping into mine