My hand rubs the back of my neck. I suddenly realized I’m invested in what she has to say, like I have real stakes in the matter.
“I’ve been told I’m too much,” she continues. “Too loud. Too ambitious. Too successful. Too big.” She makes air quotes around each word, then looks down at her body.
How the hell could any man not fucking love her body? Her body would make a pinup model weep.
“And for a long time, I believed them. I learned to shrink and take up less space. To laugh quieter and pretend that being someone’s backup plan was the same as being chosen.”
My jaw clenches.
“But here’s what I’ve learned.” She leans toward the camera, and even through the screen, I feel the intensity of her gaze. “The right person won’t ask you to be less. They’ll look at everything you are and think,finally. They’ll want the loud laugh and the big dreams and the woman who takes up space unapologetically. They’ll be excited by my successes and build me up to earn more success. And until I find that person, I’d rather be single than shrink myself into someone else’s comfort zone.”
I stare at the screen long after the video ends. In a flash, I know:I want to be the man who does that for her.
She’s brilliant and beautiful and funny and kind, and she shares her whole heart with strangers on the internet because she genuinely wants to help people find what she hasn’t found herself.
What is wrong with every single one of the men she’s dated?
I think about the men she’s mentioned in passing—the one who said she was “too intimidating,” the ones who ghosted after three dates or six months, the one who told her she’d be prettier if she smiled more. I want to find each of them and explain, in detail, exactly how wrong they were… and maybe punch them in the face.
I click on another video. Then another. I read her Substack archives—posts about past Valentine’s Days spent alone, about the gap between helping others find love and not finding it herself. I learn that she takes her coffee with whole milk and two sugars. That she believes in love at first sight, even though she tells her followers it’s statistically unlikely. That when she needs to clear her head, she goes to the Lock & Key bridge and leaves her phone behind so she can be present.
No one’s ever given her that.
By 3 AM., I know her fears, her hopes. I know the name of her childhood dog and her complicated relationship with her mother. I know she cries at the end of Pride and Prejudice every single time.
I’m in serious trouble.
The next morning,I’m useless.
I rolled into the Watchtower on four hours of sleep and three cups of coffee. None of it’s helping. The Mercer file sits open on my desk, untouched. Security protocols. I honestly do not give a fuck about security protocols right now.
I keep seeing her—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the vulnerability in her voice when she told her own stories.
Whittaker finds me at my desk, staring at my laptop screen where Tessa’s latest Instagram reel is playing on mute. Through the glass walls of the ops floor, half of Heartline could walk by and see exactly what I’m watching. She’s doing some kind of dating advice skit, playing both the “good date” and “bad date” versions of herself, and even without sound, her comedic timing is perfect.
“Archie.”
I don’t hear him.
“Archie.”
Still nothing.
“Bro, what the actual fuck? You jerking off at work?”
I slam my laptop shut so hard the sound echoes through the ops floor. Whittaker is standing three feet away, coffee in hand, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.
“It’s research,” I say.
“Research.” He draws the word out, unconvinced. “Research for what?”
Silence.
His eyes widen. “Holy shit. Youlikeher.”
“I don’t—it’s not—” I rub the back of my neck, the gesture giving me away. The muscle is already sore from last night. “There’s this thing. My sister’s gala. I needed a date.”
“And you’re researching your date by watching her Instagram reels on a Tuesday morning when you should be working?” Whittaker sets his coffee down and pulls up a chair like he’s settling in for a show. “Start from the beginning. Who is she?”
