Forbidden Collection
He’s decked out as Aladdin—baggy pants, open vest showing off his toned chest, that fake street-rat charm nailed with a red fez tilted jauntily.
“Damn, you look good,” I say, grinning as I grab my phone. He flexes playfully, striking a pose. “Not so bad yourself. Come on, let’s make some magic.” We head out, blending into the park crowds, but it’s like we’re in our own bubble. We film silly videos—me pretending to summon a genie, him “flying” on an invisible carpet. I direct him, giggling as he hams it up. “Okay, now say the line: ‘Do you trust me?’” He extends his hand, his fingers warm as they brush mine. “Do you trust me?” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave, eyes locking on mine. A