Things I Need to Google Before Date #2 （Like Do Bikers Count Heavy Makeouts as Foreplayas Patience） #2
Holy God. The things this man said to me. And the way he watched me unapologetically, not even bothering to hide the lust in his eyes. I’d never known a man like him, never known what it felt like to be wanted so openly. And I was beginning to wonder if I’d survive him.
I focused way too hard on making the coffee, as if getting every detail of this task exactly right could cover up my awkwardness. My hands shook anyway, and I nearly sloshed coffee everywhere. Smooth. So smooth.
Jake was instantly by my side, steadying the coffee mug and taking it from me.
“Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “You don’t have to be perfect for me.”
I looked up at him and found the teasing gone from his eyes.
He placed the mug down and tugged my shirt, pulling me close. “I’m here because I want to be here. With you. However you come.”
I exhaled shakily, looking down at my hands that were still betraying my anxiety. “I’m...a lot. Spreadsheets, rambling, catastrophic decision-making. None of that screams effortless.”
What sat heavy in my chest, that I didn’t say, was that men before him had always wanted the edited version of me.
The one who knew when to shut up about code, who didn’t clutter her life with colour-coded lists and spreadsheets, who wasn’t too much of anything.
I’d been left enough times to know my quirks weren’t always worth the effort.
His eyes softened. “Effortless is boring as fuck. I like you exactly like this.”
I believed him. And that scared me as much as it soothed me.
Three weeks ago, I hadn’t known the first thing about bikers.
Now I was wrapped up in one, utterly captivated, with no idea what rules applied here or what came next.
But when Jake said things like that, all I could think was that maybe this wasn’t temporary.
And that thought alone sent my anxiety into overdrive, because if there was one thing I didn’t do well with, it was uncertainty.
I had no road map. No instructions. No clear variables to plug into the formula. All I had was Jake, this MC life I didn’t understand, and me hoping like hell I could keep up.
We drank our coffee at my tiny kitchen table, and somehow the conversation circled around to the slogan on my favourite mug: “ I Paused My Game to Be Here.” It was from last year’s Brisbane Geek Fair, which ranked in my list of the “things necessary for survival.”
I may have gone on a full tangent about tech panels, retro arcade tournaments, and the pure serotonin rush of a convention centre filled with fellow nerds.
Jake didn’t say much, but the way he hung off every word I said made me feel like my geek fair enthusiasm was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.
Then his phone buzzed with a text from his president, and just like that, he was gone.
He kissed me before he left, taking his time to ruin me all over again. I then spent approximately twenty-three and a half minutes longer than usual showering and dressing for the day because my brain was one long constant replay of that kiss.
Thankfully, I was working from home today, so none of my team got a front-row seat to my girlfriend-of-a-hot-biker glitch (wait, am I Jake’s girlfriend?).
Slack may have gotten a few distracted messages, and GitHub definitely got some half-baked commits while I stared blankly at my screen and remembered Jake’s hands on me, but that’s just between me and GitHub.
Every time I tried to focus on debugging, my brain rerouted to his mouth on mine, and suddenly Johnson’s broken code didn’t seem like the most pressing problem in the universe.
By lunchtime, I’d wrangled my brain into doing some actual work. In between Google sessions, that is.
Google search history from this morning (apparently I'm having some kind of existential crisis):
“how to look sexy while brushing teeth with morning hair”
“is it normal to octopus-cling to hot men in your sleep”
“how to operate basic appliances when being eye-fucked”
“how to tell if you’re falling too fast or just under-caffeinated”
“can you die from sexual frustration while making breakfast with a hot biker”
“signs a biker is ruining you for all other men: early warning system”
“dating timeline: when is it acceptable to steal all his shirts”
That last one was purely hypothetical. I definitely hadn’t already mentally claimed three of his T-shirts.
Me
Jake update: he slept over last night. No sex. Just sleeping.
Megan
And?
Me
I woke up on top of him. Like, literally. Arms and legs around him. Probably drooling.
Megan
You koala’d him.
Me
Without consent.
Megan
Babe, pretty sure no guy feels the need to consent to koalaing.
Me
I’m a sleep predator.
Me
I’m adding this to my list of things therapy can’t fix.
Megan
Right next to “attracted to bad boys with motorcycles”
Me
THAT’S NOT HELPING
I was thinking about lunch when Jake turned up unexpectedly. He stood in my doorway holding a toolbox, looking like every home improvement fantasy I never knew I had.
“I came to fix your tap,” he said.
“What tap?” My brain was clearly still operating at 60% capacity.
“The leaky one in your kitchen that I noticed this morning.”
He’d noticed my leaking tap? While I’d been spiralling about morning breath and existential coffee failure, he’d been cataloguing maintenance issues and planning a fix-it tour?
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’m already here, darlin’.” He stepped inside, and suddenly my apartment felt about three sizes smaller. “It won’t take long.”
I followed him to the kitchen, trying not to stare at the way his jeans fit or how his T-shirt clung to his muscles. Professional interest only. Completely academic observation of a man doing manual labour in my personal space.
He set the toolbox on the kitchen counter. Tools clinked as he sorted through them, pulling out a spanner with the kind of casual authority that I should not have found hot, and yet there we were.
“How’s your day going?” he asked as he crouched and did something in the cupboard under the sink.
“Good. Productive. Very...focused.” I definitely didn’t mention all my Google searches. “How about you?”
I leaned against the counter, pretending this was a normal afternoon and not a live demo of Savage: Home Edition .
Every time his shoulders shifted, his shirt pulled tight across his back, and I knew right then that I wouldn’t be getting much work done after he left.
Not when my brain had this new material to work with.
Jake stood and met my gaze, and whoa , the heat in his eyes reached low in my belly. “I’ve been distracted as hell all day. All I can think about is how you felt on top of me this morning.”
“That's—you can't just—” I waved my hand between us. “My brain doesn't have the processing power to handle statements like that at 1 p.m. on a Friday!”
I was met with a sexy smirk. “Fair’s fair, darlin’. You’ve been messing with my brain since the day I met you.”
With that, he got to work fixing my tap.
And if you’re wondering what I did, I got back to work.
Well, I tried to get back to work, but it’s surprisingly difficult to debug code when there’s a hot biker fixing things in your kitchen.
Every clank of tools was like auditory torture designed to destroy my concentration.
Emergency Google search: “how to concentrate on work when hot man is being helpful in your personal space”
Results : Unhelpful. It seems that Google doesn’t have solutions for this specific type of cognitive issue.
“There,” Jake finally said, wiping his hands on a rag. “She’s as good as new.”
He turned the tap on and off, showing me there was no drip.
“Thank you.” I was probably staring at him like he’d just performed actual magic. “That’s been driving me crazy.”
“You should’ve mentioned it.” His eyes held that intensity of his that made my stomach flip. “I would have fixed it for you.”
I mentally ran through a list of things I could break in my apartment for him to fix. I’d added my bathroom taps, shower head, toilet, and refrigerator to my possibilities when Jake spoke again.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said, walking around the island bench to where I was sitting on a stool, moving in close. “But first, I have a question for you.”
“Okay.” My voice came out softer than I meant, all breath and zero dignity.
His gaze dropped to my throat for a moment before finding my eyes again. “You free tonight?”
“Tonight?” I blinked as my pulse rioted. “Like, tonight tonight?”
His mouth curved into a smile that was half amused, half I-really-want-to-ruin-you. “Yeah, tonight tonight. I thought I could take you somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” OH MY GOD, WHERE WAS MY brAIN? Was I doomed to keep repeating everything he said? “On a date?”
“Yes, a date.” His hand found my hip, and I was 99.9999% sure I was never going to find my brain again. “Are you free?”
“Yes.” The word tumbled out. “I mean, yes, I’d love to. What time? Where are we going? Should I dress up? Dress down? How dressed should I be?”
Jake’s smile widened at my ramble. “Seven. And dress however you’re comfortable. We’re going somewhere fun.”
“Fun like roller skating fun or fun like bungee jumping fun? Because I need to know the risk level for outfit planning purposes.”
HOW DO MEN NOT UNDERSTAND THIS ABOUT WOMEN? You can’t just tell us to wear whatever we want! That’s not an outfit instruction; that’s an existential crisis waiting to happen. I need specifications! Parameters! A detailed brief with acceptance criteria!
“Fun like I’m gonna teach you how to beat your brother at pool.”
It’s no exaggeration to say that my heart stopped.
“You remember that?” I whispered.
“I remember everything you tell me, Eden.”
Current emotional status : Error 404: Feelings not found. System overload. Please restart heart.exe and try again.
After Jake left me, with a fixed tap and a broken brain, I immediately took up Google research like it was my job.
Current Google search history:
“how to focus on pool balls instead of his actual balls”
“what to wear pool hall date when you already know how to play but need to look hot doing it”
“is it normal to be turned on by someone teaching you things”
“can you die from watching a hot biker demonstrate proper cue technique”
“how long will a biker wait before he gets frustrated with going slow”
I need to know if bikers count heavy makeout sessions as foreplay or as patience because so far, Jake keeps pulling back right when things get interesting.
And while I appreciate his approach (I think?), there’s this part of my brain that keeps running worst-case scenarios about him getting bored with my inexperience or deciding I’m not worth the wait.
UPDATE (4:52 p.m.) Just spent twenty minutes practicing my bridge technique in the mirror to make sure I look competent. Also decided that watching myself bend over an imaginary pool table while thinking about Jake watching me is maybe one of the weirdest pre-date prep things I’ve ever done.
UPDATE (5:13 p.m.): Texted my brother to let him know his days of pool dominance are numbered. He replied with “ sure sis.” The disrespect. Jake's going to help me wipe that smugness right off his face.
Current status : Having a full-blown outfit crisis while trying to mentally prepare for an evening of Jake correcting my stance, adjusting my grip, and probably standing very close behind me while I attempt to not think about the load-bearing capacity of pool tables and whether they meet safety standards for non-billiards activities.
P.S. To my future self who will inevitably read this after tonight's date: I hope you managed to actually improve at pool and didn't spend the entire evening mentally undressing your instructor.
P.P.S. If anyone knows how to look like you're paying attention to pool strategy while actually fantasising about your hot teacher's hands, please send tips. This is for academic purposes only.
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