She was already out there, leaning against the railing, cigarette between her fingers. The glow of her phone lit her tired face. When she saw me, she silently offered a cigarette with two fingers. It was morning, just past ten, the sun was up, and the dark clouds were churring above.
I took it, sat beside her, and lit up. The silence between us was thick—awkward, but not cold.
"Sorry again," she said finally, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "For… everything."
"It's fine," I replied. "Don't mention it."
"I'm not doing it for fun, you know," she said, not looking at me. "Not some kink thing. I'm doing it for the money."
"I figured," I said quietly.
She nodded once. "You swiped. Didn't know you used that app… I thought you had a girlfriend. Or… are you a cheater, like my boyfriend?"
Her words stung like lemon in a paper cut. She was getting cheated on?
"We broke up," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Well, she broke up with me."
"Oh," she murmured. "Sorry to hear that."
"Yeah…"
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, softly, "You paid my hospital bill. I want to pay you back… but my wallet's emptier than my fridge."
I laughed under my breath. "Is this gonna turn into one of those 'Oh no, pizza guy, I don't have any money, whatever shall I do?' situations?"
She snorted, actually laughing this time. "God… you are such a…."
But then the smile slipped from her lips. She looked at my hand, at the bandaged knuckles.
"I'm serious, though," she said. Her tone was different now. "Come."
She took my hand, fingers cold but steady, and led me quietly back toward my door. Before I could protest, she opened it and stepped inside.
My mind raced. My instincts screamed. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, I wanted her. But this? This wasn't that. Not with why she was offering.
She pulled off her shirt, her motions slow and mechanical. She turned to face me, eyes searching mine for… something.
I gently stopped her hand and she froze.
"What—?"
"I have another idea," I said. "Sit."
She looked confused, maybe a little insulted, but she listened. She sank onto the couch. I followed and, without another word, lay down across the cushions, resting my head on her thighs.
"My ex used to do this," I muttered. "Rub my hair until I pass out. It's the only thing that helped with insomnia."
Jay blinked down at me. "You want me to… play with your hair?"
"Yeah."
She stared a moment longer. "You don't… want sex?"
"Nope."
Her brows furrowed. "You're not… attracted to me?"
I gave her a small smile. "I am. You're stunning. But I can tell you're forcing it. This would feel like… like rape with more polite paperwork. I'd rather you just help me sleep."
She stared at me, stunned. Then shook her head slowly and gave the smallest laugh.
"You're not normal."
"And you are?"
"Well… fair enough," she said, smiling faintly.
She reached down, fingers weaving gently through my hair. Slow. Soft. Her nails grazed my scalp in delicate, rhythmic motions, sending tingles across my skin. My eyes fluttered shut. For once, the silence wasn't suffocating—it felt like peace. A rare kind.
But sleep? Not a chance.
I was too aware. Of everything. Of how stupid this was. Patting my head like I was some sad little boy who needed comfort. Why had I even asked for it? My face flushed with secondhand embarrassment and regret.
I lay there, eyes closed, trying to ride the moment out. But the awkwardness crept in again, like fog rolling in under a door.
Eventually, I cleared my throat and sat up.
"Well… thank you," I said awkwardly.
"That's it?" she asked, brows raised.
"Yep," I replied. "That's it."
"Wow…"
Shit. I had a boner.
Of all times, it had to be now. I shifted uncomfortably, crossing my legs to hide my 7'1. I hadn't jerked off since that stupid accident, and now my body was reacting on its own.
Trying not to look at her only made things worse. She was gorgeous. A tank top clung to her body like a second skin, her yoga pants hugging her curves. Shit. She was way too hot for me.
"You sure your boyfriend's cheating?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from my dick.
"Yeah." She sighed. "Saw the texts. The pictures. But confront him? For what? Where would I go?"
Her voice cracked slightly. Not a sob, but something close.
"Don't bother with my life," she muttered. "It's a fucking mess."
"Mmh," I said softly, unsure how to comfort her.
"What about you?" she asked suddenly. "Why'd your girl dump you?"
"Because I was broke," I replied, laughing bitterly. "Said I didn't have money for anything. She didn't want to carry a deadweight."
"For money, huh?" She crossed her legs slowly, dragging my eyes right back down her body. "Damn."
Fuck. I could see the edges of her panties peeking out from beneath the hotpants she wore—black, lacy, hugging her hips just right. It was only for a second, a blink, but enough to brand itself into my brain. I tried not to stare, but when I glanced up again, our eyes met.
Shit. I looked away immediately, eyes darting to the floor, then the ceiling, then anywhere that wasn't the curve of her hips.
She cleared her throat. "Can I… assume my debt's paid?"
"Of course," I said quickly. "No worries here. Just… just stay safe, alright? Don't do anything stupid like that again."
She tilted her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Yes, Father."
"Eh…" I laughed awkwardly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to lecture."
"No, no," she said, and her voice softened. "It's kinda nice. Knowing someone gives a shit."
"Oh… yeah. I mean, I'm just being a decent person."
"Mm," she hummed. "Most men would've taken the offer and fucked me right there."
I blinked. "N-not all men. Some of us are decent, come on…"
She chuckled at my flustered reply, then slowly stood up, brushing off imaginary dust from her thighs. My eyes followed her movement despite myself.
She gave me a knowing look, then started toward the door. But halfway there, she paused. Looked down, turned her head toward me… leaning in and pressed a kiss to my cheek.
"Thank you," she said, her voice softer now, intimate.
My throat tightened. "Oh… n-no, uh… no problem."
She smiled at me—small, maybe even a little shy—and turned back to the door.
"You won't walk me out?" she asked, half-teasing, half-challenging.
"I would, but I think I twisted my leg earlier. Can't really stand right now."
It was better than saying, You're so hot my dick's about to snap in half, and if I stand up now you'll see how messed up I am. She saw through the lie, of course—her smirk said everything. But she didn't push. Just opened the door, gave a small wave over her shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway.
The second the door shut, I exhaled hard.
My brain was fried. I sat there for a beat, then pulled out my phone and opened a porn video like a man possessed. If I didn't get this tension out of my system, I was going to melt into a puddle of horny, confused shame.
The video started and I unzipped. While I was fast forwarding the intro, my phone buzzed. A notification… shit, it was really happening. A match? On the app? Me? Matching with someone?
I swiped down to check. Sure enough—there it was.
Matched with: Marine Kale, 24.
Her profile popped up. Drummer. Loves music. The algorithm must've picked up on my endless playlist of indie rock and punk classics. Her photos were stunning. Short black hair, deep brown eyes, lean but curvy build. In one beach photo, her bikini couldn't fully contain her chest. A small slip of sideboob peeked out, practically challenging the fabric to do its job.
"Goddamn," I whispered, heart racing. I shook my head and sat back on the stool, hovering my finger over the chat button. What the hell do I even say? Hello? Hi? Good evening?
So lame.
How do people even flirt online? I felt like a grandpa discovering the internet. Maybe I could ask Melissa for advice…
"Shit, she's hot," I muttered. "No. No, no, no. Porn. Focus on porn, you weirdo. Don't be a stalker and jerk off to her."
I swiped the match tab away and tried to focus on the video again, stroking my dick. However, that didn't last long, because about ten seconds later, another ping came. This one a message—from her. The girl I matched online!
Marine Kale: 'Cool tats!'
My heart jumped into my throat. What the hell was I supposed to say? Brb beating my meat? Thanks lol? My brain short-circuited. I couldn't even form a sentence.
I closed the porn tab and put the phone down, breathing deeply, trying to calm the storm in my head. My dick, still half-hard, pulsed energy.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Breathe. Think. Don't fuck this up."
She messaged me. She started the convo. And maybe—just maybe—I had a shot at something real. Or something really, really hot.
As my dick finally went limp, my brain started working again. Clarity returned, and with it, the shame of giving myself blue balls for no goddamn reason. I opened the app and tapped on the chat. She'd complimented me—so naturally, I should return the favor, right?
I typed: 'Thank you. You've got some good taste in music. And a drummer, huh? Wow.'
Cringe? Maybe. But I sent it anyway, got up, yanked my pants up, and started pacing from the anticipation. While waiting for her reply, I went to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and sat back down on the stool. I took a sip, trying to cool off, but my eyes drifted right back to her photos.
God, she was hot.
Ping. A new notification. Her again. Why the hell was I this excited?
She wrote: 'Thank you. Your profile says you play guitar. What was your first ever song?'
I smiled faintly, fingers ready to type, when her next message popped up right after.
'Is it Smoke on the Water? Everyone's first was that lol.'
I let out a soft laugh and nodded. 'Yep. Classic. Good riff though. What was yours?'
'21 Guns.'
'Oh, solid. Good taste. Gotta love Green Day.'
There I was, grinning like an idiot, like one of those kids who watched slime videos on loop. I didn't even know why I was this giddy. I finished my water, set the cup in the sink, then leaned against the back of my couch, phone still in hand.
That was it. That was all the social ability I had—music talk. If I wanted to keep it going, I'd have to actually try and carry the conversation forward… which wasn't really my thing.
Then, another message popped up: 'So where do you live?'
My eyebrows lifted. She was asking where I lived?
I glanced back at her profile. Five kilometers away. Not bad. She was in the city, while I was out in the more suburban sprawl, but still—it wasn't far. Ten minutes by bus. Easily manageable. There was a chance here. A real one.
Minnora, I typed.
'Ooh, quiet life, huh? Far from the city.'
'Yep. I work at a music store. Called Two O's.'
'That's a weird name.'
'Owner's name is Aroon. Two O's. Funny name.'
'LMAO'
I put my phone down and stood up. I had to get ready for work anyway. Still, considering my awkwardness, the conversation had gone surprisingly well. As I waited for another reply, I grabbed my coat and went to the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and shook off the last bit of sleep from my system.
Back in the kitchen, I checked my phone again. New message. I unlocked the screen and opened her chat.
'Do you guys sell sticks?'
'Yeah. Drumsticks, right? We've got 'em. On discount, actually.'
'Oh, sweet. I have a friend living there. I could visit her and stop by your store too. What are your opening hours?'
'Nine to eleven. But I work from 10:30 to 8. Double shift until the weekend.'
'Rough. Money problems?'
'My friend says I'm financially tight. I call it financially fucked.'
'Oof.'
'Yep.'
'Anyway, I won't hold you up. I'll probably swing by today. See you when I see you.'
'Sure. Bye!'
She was coming to the store? Well, well, well—wasn't I the smooth criminal. Damien the damn Casanova. But, if I'm honest, I lied about the drumsticks being on discount. Shit. Guess Aroon would have to forgive me for inventing a fake promo at checkout.
"Okay," I muttered to myself, opening my camera and checking my reflection. "Come on, Damien. You got yourself a date… or a half-date… or something that vaguely resembles a date."
—