And holy shit, he’s real.
He lives in a nice part of town. HOA-controlled grass and mailbox-uniformity nice. He’s in the system. And better, he teaches swimming. At the community pool.
That’s it. That’s the moment the rom-com begins. The vending machine thing was just foreshadowing. A trailer. This is the full cinematic release. With popcorn. And my tits out, chlorinated and dripping.
He teaches weekends. And I, conveniently, have no idea how to swim. Never learned. Trauma? Possibly. I drowned in a kiddie pool once. Didn’t die, but my trust in water was irrevocably damaged. Until now. Because now? He’s going to save me. With his hands. On my waist. Holding me up. Teaching me how to breathe. God. Water will become our love language.
This is not a sex fantasy. This is self-improvement. Growth.
It’s perfect. I’ll show up in the pink two-piece with the ruffled skirt that whispers purity but screams, step on me gently. It’s the kind of suit that says, I don’t belong here but God do I want to try.
I bought it for a vacation I never went on. But maybe I was always meant to debut it for Benji.
I’ll wear the matching sandals with pink starfish on the straps. Maybe I’ll wear a toe ring. Benji feels like the kind of man who notices feet.
I need a pedicure. Immediately. I’m not showing up with chipped polish and emotional baggage. Only one of those is cute.
That’s the next call as I drain my coffee. My nail tech has a cancellation. Another sign. The stars are begging me to fall in love.
Pool has private slots available. Four sessions before the season ends. That’s all I need. Four weekends for him to fall under the spell. Four Saturdays of floating in his arms, splashing like a helpless little thing, saying “oh no” and pretending I didn’t just brush my thigh against his.
I book it.
The receptionist even said, “Oh, Benji’s a favorite. Super gentle. Everyone loves him.”
Yes. Obviously. I do. I’m everyone.
After I hang up, I picture him waiting poolside with a towel over one shoulder and the sun catching on his lashes. I imagine him holding my wrist to show me how to paddle. I imagine him remembering me from the hallway.
He’s the kind of man who’d apologize after bumping my elbow. The kind who’d hold my bag while I fixed a twisted ankle strap. The kind who’d fall first. Hard.
And when fall comes? We’ll take long walks and pick out pumpkins together. I’ll teach him how to flirt. He’ll pretend not to be good at it, but he’ll blush when I call him brave.
By winter, we’ll be snowed in. It’s going to be so wholesome it hurts. Like, Hallmark-channel-but-horny levels of magic.
God. I’m going to learn so much. About swimming. True love.
And boundaries, so I can get Rhys’s stamp of approval and Hank will drop his damn charges.
I’ve got a whole hour to think while someone scrapes my sins off with a pumice stone and paints my toenails fuck me-pink. That’s sixty full minutes to strategize which of the men I spiritually own gets the honor of my emotional focus today.
Technically, I could try Rhys. For balance.
But he hides in his office all day like a haunted little therapist cryptid, probably journaling about how to emotionally neuter me with healthy boundaries. Creeping around the building trying to catch glimpses of him might seem romantic in my head, but in execution it’s just... stalking. And I’ve already hit my weekly limit.
Benji? Tempting. But I have swimming with him tomorrow, and if I loiter like a deranged groupie today, it’ll dilute the impact of my pre-scheduled poolside seduction. Presentation matters.
Jett deserves chaos today.
He’s broody. He’s angry. He’s got those arms that look like they’re mad at ceilings. And the way he glowered at Kev for looking at me too long, is basically caveman courtship and I accept.
Pedicure complete, toes divine, feet ready to step on a man’s throat, I hit the grocery store first. Recovery snacks are the goal. Candy. Cookies. Cashews. Something sweet, something salty, something that implies I care about his protein intake but also want to feed him like a raccoon I’ve domesticated with affection and bribes.
Then I detour to the stationery store and find the most perfect little box of cards. Pastel monsters. Big eyes. Little fangs. Sentimental chaos. One of them says “It’s scary how much I like you” and I actually shriek a little in the aisle.
It’s giving “emotionally unstable girl who might kill for you.” It’s giving “my love language is threats.” It’s giving me.
Back in my car, I pack the offerings into a black gift bag with a pink glitter skull on it. Festive. Threatening. Girly in a way that says I chew my pen caps and make men nervous.
