Chapter 3 #2
I gave away most of my money because I didn’t need it, and other people did.
I knew that Rosa’s back hurt after long shifts, so I’d hired a chair masseuse to come in once a week and give the whole staff massages.
I knew Nate lived on terrible coffee and protein bars during long shifts, so I had a meal service deliver proper dinners to the station twice a week so that he and his deputy were well-fed.
I’d spent six months restoring this house, not because I wanted to show off, but because beautiful things deserved to be preserved.
Holly wanted someone steady and present.
I could be that person.
I was that person.
I just had to figure out how to show her without running away every time she looked at me.
I left the office, moving on autopilot down the hallway to the front parlor, where the largest windows faced the water.
Mistletoe Harbor was visible in the distance, the soft glow of lights reflecting off the bay.
Shops downtown stayed open late this time of year—residents prepping for the holidays, and tourists drifting through town looking for photo ops and a good time.
I rested my forehead against the cold glass and let out a slow, controlled breath. “You have to take a step back,” I whispered to myself. “You can’t build a relationship off a compatibility score.”
Except … couldn’t you?
Other people did. Thousands of them. Millions, even.
If the algorithm was right—and it always was—then I had a shot with Holly.
The thought made my palms sweat.
I turned from the window and started moving again, unable to stand still. My brain was going too fast—trying to calculate, trying to optimize, trying to identify the least humiliating path forward.
I’d see Holly a couple of days before the Candlelight Walk for setup, but I needed more time with her before then. More exposure therapy.
At midnight, I made coffee. I didn’t need the caffeine, but I knew if I didn’t do something to occupy my hands, I’d head back to my computer. I ground the beans manually, counting each turn of the handle. Twenty-three rotations. Exactly enough for a single cup.
The ritual calmed me, but just barely.
I drank my coffee standing at the counter in my kitchen—the same one Holly had leaned against—and pulled up her Instagram again, scrolling through each post with obsessive attention to detail.
There was one from two days ago: a bouquet she’d made for someone’s anniversary.
White roses, eucalyptus, and—I zoomed in—blue thistles.
Sea holly.
She’d used them after our conversation.
My chest tightened in a way that was half-panic, half-hope, and entirely overwhelming.
By one a.m., I was back in my office, reorganizing browser tabs I’d already organized twice.
By two, I’d opened a blank document and started listing conversation strategies like I was prepping for a product launch:
Ask about her favorite Christmas movie
Ask about floral arch mechanics? (No, too odd)
Compliment her work (but don’t make it sound like a Yelp review)
Tell her she made your house feel brighter (too romantic?)
Don’t run away mid-sentence
Make eye contact for more than five seconds
Try smiling. Like, a normal amount (not the serial killer kind)
I glared at the list, my voice flat as I read the last item aloud. “Try smiling. Like a normal amount. Not the serial killer kind.”
Jesus Christ.
I deleted it. Then immediately re-created it and added:
Bring something (NOT flowers—coffee?)
Use her name
Remember: she laughed. Not at you; with you.
Don’t mention the compatibility score (OBVIOUSLY)
I’d been staring at the list so long that every item started to blur together, and I was suddenly overcome with a restless sort of energy.
I felt wired and exhausted at the same time, my mind spinning while my muscles begged for release.
I knew what I needed. What I’d trained myself to do when my brain wouldn’t shut off, and sleep was impossible.
I left my office and climbed the stairs to my bedroom, my footsteps echoing in the empty house.
My closet was a testament to my need for order. My shirts and sweaters were organized by color, my shoes lined up in precise rows. At the back was an unmarked black box.
I pulled it out and carried it to my bed.
For a moment, I just stared at it, my hands resting on the sealed top.
Sixteen years. That’s how long it had been since I’d been with another person.
Sixteen years of telling myself I didn’t need intimacy, that I was fine alone, that sex had never been my strong suit anyway, so why bother pursuing it?
But I’d pursued it—obsessively. Just not with actual people.
I opened the box to reveal cock rings of varying materials—silicone, metal, and ones that vibrated.
A set of clamps I’d bought after reading that nipple stimulation could intensify orgasms by up to 40 percent in some men.
Two prostate massagers of different sizes, one with a remote control.
A collection of lubes, each chosen for its specific properties—duration, sensation, and cleanup.
And there, in the upper right corner, wrapped in a microfiber cloth: my Fleshlight.
I pulled it out, clinical and absurd and nothing like actual human anatomy.
But God, it felt incredible.
I’d bought it five years ago after reading a detailed review that promised “the closest simulation to real intercourse available on the market.” I’d spent weeks researching before purchasing, of course.
Comparing models, reading user testimonials, and analyzing the technical specifications of different internal textures.
Because that’s what I did. I researched, and I optimized. I turned everything into a project I could master through study and practice.
Even this.
Especially this.
I set the toy on my nightstand and returned to the box for the lubricant—the water-based one, long-lasting yet easy to clean up. Then I stripped off my clothes, folding them out of habit and setting them on the chair by the window.
I climbed onto the bed, propping myself up on pillows against my headboard until I was at an angle I’d learned worked best, my cock already half-hard just from anticipation. From the Pavlovian response my body had learned over hundreds of these sessions.
But tonight felt different.
Tonight, for the first time in years, I had someone specific to think about.
Someone who wasn’t just a vague amalgamation of attractive features or a fantasy constructed from porn I’d watched. Someone real. Someone with an off-center smile and eyes that could wreck me.
Someone who was, according to the algorithm I’d built, absolutely perfect for me.
I reached for the lube and squirted a thick rope into the Fleshlight, working my index finger along the ribbed sleeve to spread it around. I gripped it in both my hands and pressed the opening against my cock.
I’d always thought it looked ridiculous, this over-engineered sheath of silicone and plastic, but the first time I’d used it, I’d nearly cried. The feel of it gripping me, the way it yielded and tightened and sometimes made a tiny, greedy sucking noise, I’d thought, “Jesus, I could die doing this.”
I began slowly, the first few strokes almost chaste.
My eyes dropped closed, and an image of Holly flickered on the back of my lids.
The way her mouth curved a little higher on one side, the way her haphazard bun showed off the elegant slope of her neck.
I tried to imagine her naked, but my brain struggled with that kind of visualization.
I satisfied myself with a clothed Holly, leaning in close, whispering something conspiratorial, her hand skimming my thigh.
Goosebumps broke out over my skin, and my stomach swooped, like I was experiencing the first drop of a roller coaster.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
My mind sped up, searching for details to hang the fantasy on. I pictured her laughing, calling me “handsome” in that way that implied she thought I was a little absurd. She’d tell me to relax as she straddled me on my bed, pinning my wrists just to see if I’d squirm.
My hips jerked at the thought.
I let myself get close, right up to the edge, feeling the pulse at the base of my cock, the tightening in my gut. I held there, breath shallow, almost panting. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
Not yet, I told myself. Not fucking yet.
I slowed to a stop, my cock sheathed and my body trembling. I could hear the blood in my ears, a deep roar. I counted to thirty and started again.
This time, it went faster—my body already tuned, nerves strung out, begging for release.
I pictured Holly in my lap, her hands steady as she unbuttoned my shirt, that off-center smile making fun of me.
I imagined her pushing me down, pinning me with her knees, her weight pressing me into the mattress.
I let the fantasy run riot, let her say words I could only ever imagine, let her reach down to stroke me, guide me.
I stopped again, grunting and biting down on the inside of my cheek. I let go of the Fleshlight, my erection bobbing free. My head felt light and full of static, and my heartbeat raced as I willed the wave to recede. I wanted to make this last. Wanted to punish myself for wanting her so badly.
Once more, I told myself. Just one more.
When I started again, I didn’t bother with restraint. I stroked myself hard and fast, the toy slapping rhythmically against my pelvis. I pictured Holly on her back, her hair splayed across my pillow, her mouth open, daring me to finish there.
My thighs shook, my knees pulled up, and I couldn’t stop the sounds coming out of me. I clenched my teeth, sucking a breath in through my nose. I felt fevered, my skin hot, a bead of sweat running from my temple into my hair.