I went on three dates that day, and I thought about Rhys during all of them.
This was becoming a problem. Not a small, manageable problem like running out of oat milk — a large, catastrophic, possibly-requiring-therapy problem. I was supposed to be finding my perfect match on national television, charming ten men while forty million viewers judged my every interaction, and instead my brain had decided to run a continuous highlight reel titled “Rhys Callahan’s Jawline: A Retrospective” while other men talked at me about things that evaporated on contact. Derek told me about his childhood dog. At least I think it was a dog. It might have been a boat. I was too busy remembering the way Rhys’s voice dropped half an octave when he said my name — not Sloane, what the other men called me, but how he said it like it was a word he hadn’t decided whether to keep or discard.
Julian was, objectively, perfect. He pulled out my chair with smooth, rehearsed efficiency, probably while listening to a Huberman Lab episode about “optimizing interpersonal dynamics.” He asked thoughtful questions about my career, my vision for the show. He listened with his head tilted at the right angle, nodding exactly at the right moments. It was like having dinner with a very attractive chatbot — one trained on self-help podcasts and a WikiHow article titled “How to Appear Humanon a First Date.” All the right inputs, but the output was missing a soul. His hand brushed mine reaching for the bread basket, and I felt nothing. Nothing. Zero. Just the mild inconvenience of having to acknowledge another person’s skin. My phone could have generated more chemistry, and my phone was three software updates behind.
“So what’s your comfort food?” he asked, somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, his eyes open and attentive and completely devoid of actual curiosity. “The thing you crave when you’ve had a terrible day?”
I told him. Apple pie with too much cinnamon and a crust slightly burnt on the edges, how my grandmother made it. I told him about the kitchen in Connecticut, the flour on every surface, how she’d let me crimp the edges with a fork while she told stories about my grandfather. I told him more than I should have, because Julian’s careful attention made me want to test whether anyone was actually home behind those expressions.
Ten minutes later, he suggested the crème brûlée — “It’s supposed to be incredible here, and I know you have a sweet tooth” — and I understood. He’d been scanning for keywords, not listening. The difference was small and irreversible: a person who transcribed your words versus one who understood what you meant.
Rhys would have remembered the apple pie. The thought arrived uninvited, and I shoved it aside with force. Rhys was elsewhere. Rhys was probably back at the mansion, scowling at load-bearing walls and making cutting observations about everyone’s life choices. Rhys had no business occupying real estate in my brain while I was on a perfectly adequate date with a perfectly adequate man who was perfectly adequately failing to make me feel anything.
Derek Hoffman was not adequate. Derek Hoffman was magnetic, intense, a man who made you feel like the only person in a room even when six cameras were documenting your every breath. He looked at me like he could see through all my careful composure to what was real underneath, and for the first fifteen minutes I believed he was exactly what I’d been searching for — an instant-chemistry Hinge match that makes you text your group chat ladies I think this is it. Then he put his hand on the small of my back.
It wasn’t the touch itself — physical contact was part of the show, expected and encouraged by producers who knew chemistry translated into ratings. It was the pressure. His palm pressed flat against my spine — a claim staked, territory being marked. A touch that said I’m here in a way that really meant You’re mine. He didn’t ask. Didn’t check. Just assumed access to my body was a privilege he’d already earned. Rhys hadn’t touched me once in three weeks. Not even accidentally. The comparison arrived sideways and I hated that it arrived at all.
“You seem tense,” he said, his voice low, his fingers pressing once against the small of my back through the fabric of my dress. “Is it the cameras?”
“I’m fine.” I shifted just enough that his hand slid away without me having to explicitly remove it. “Just tired.”
“You work too hard.” His eyes were sympathetic, perfectly practiced concern. “You need a man who actually appreciates everything you do. A man who sees your value.”
“And that’s you?”
“I’m certainly trying to be.” He smiled — practiced, warm, except it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Unlike some people who don’t seem to be taking this seriously.”
I knew who he meant.
“Rhys isn’t…” I started, then stopped. My fingers had gone to my earring — the tell Rhys had spotted during the Connection Sessions, a habit I hadn’t known I had until a man I’d known for three days read me like blueprints. “He has his own approach.”
“Does he?” Derek’s tone was mild, but an edge lurked beneath it. “Because it looks like he’s just here to prove a point about how much better he is than the rest of us. He doesn’t respect you, Sloane. He doesn’t respect this process.”
The word respect landed wrong in his mouth. Respect. Devotion. Ownership. Different concepts, but Derek made them blur into one thing — a thing that made the skin on the back of my neck prickle. I’d dated enough men who confused “I’m committed to you” with “I’ve decided you’re mine” to know the difference. The first was a gift. The second was a cage with better wallpaper.
“I appreciate your concern,” I said carefully, “but I’m capable of making my own judgments.”
His smile widened, and this time it definitely didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course you are. That’s what I admire about you. You’re so… strong.”
He made the word sound like an accusation. I’d heard that tone before — from my mother, from exes, from every man who used strong when what he meant was difficult. Too much. A woman who wouldn’t fold herself small enough to fit into the space he’d allotted for her. I smiled back. The professional one. The one that revealed nothing.
Tessa found me in the green room between takes, slumped on a couch chosen for aesthetics over comfort, staring at the ceiling like it might contain answers.
“You have that look,” she said, settling onto the arm of the couch. “The one where you’re mentally calculating the oddsof faking your own death and moving to a country without extradition treaties.”
“I’m not that dramatic.”
“Sloane, I’ve known you for eight years. You once considered becoming a hermit in the Scottish Highlands because a man you’d been on two dates with texted ’u up’ at 3 AM. You had a Pinterest board for it. The board was called ’Operation: Moors.’”
“That was a reasonable response to a serious boundary violation.” I rubbed my eyes, careful not to smudge forty-five minutes of a stylist’s work. “I’m fine. I’m just… tired.”
“You’re looking for him.”
“What?”
“In every room. Every time a door opens.” Tessa’s voice was gentle but relentless. “You’re looking for Rhys, and you’re disappointed when it’s not him.”
“I am not—”
