They’re temporary.
Physical.
Clean.
No strings.
No expectations.
Wham, bam—thank you, ma’am.
Everyone walks away intact.
That’s the deal.
That’s the only deal I make.
“Ah,” Uncle Uzzi hums, steepling his fingers like he’s already figured me out. “So you’re afraid.”
I stop mid-step.
Turn slowly.
“Careful, old man.”
He grins.
Unbothered.
“Oh, I’m always careful,” he says. “But I’m also right.”
I stare at him.
Because I don’t like that tone.
Don’t like the way he’s looking at me like I’m something to be solved.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I tell him.
“Except wanting something you can’t control,” he counters immediately.
That—
That hits closer than I want it to.
So I scoff.
“Not interested,” I say, crossing my arms. “I don’t need a mate. I don’t need some magical app telling me who I’m supposed to end up with.”
“Fated mates,” he corrects, wagging a finger. “Very important distinction.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Still a no.”
Because the idea alone?
It itches.
Like a trap.
