Hunter smiled at me as we walked back to the lot, and wow… pictures hadn’t done him justice. He was taller than I expected, broad shoulders filling out a plain gray t-shirt that clung to him and hinted at muscle without trying too hard. His joggers looked lived-in but clean, displaying a casual confidence that didn’t need effort to make an impression. And those Vans, crisp and spotless, said more about him than I expected. He noticed the little things and took pride in them.
Then there were his eyes. Blue. Not just light-blue-like-the-ocean cliche, but sharp, clear, and so direct it made my stomach flip. It was a warm day in California, but I don’t think it was the outside heat that left me feeling flushed.
What really drew me in was the tattoo on his left arm, inked from shoulder to wrist in intricate lines, weaving together two koi fish circling each other. The detail was beautiful, scales shaded with care, water curling around them so the tattoo almost seemed to move. My eyes lingered longer thanI meant, and when I glanced up, his grin had deepened, just a little.
He carried his past on his skin; the places he’d been, the things he’d survived, all there in the ink and the way he stood. Confident and grounded, a man who’d seen too much and still smiled. And I couldn’t look away.
I wasn’t supposed to like him this much. That was the first thought running through my head as I pulled into my apartment complex, parked my car, and gripped the steering wheel as if it might tell me what to do next.
The second thought? Dang, he’s cute.
Not just in the obvious ways: blue eyes, ginger beard, tall enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. Cute in the way he laughed easily, in the way he didn’t coddle me during mini golf, like he trusted I could handle the teasing.
And me? I was spiraling.
It should have been a warning sign; men who seemed too good to be true usually were. Still, I kept replaying the small things. The way he leaned on his putter, patient, like he had all the time in the world. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The way he fished my golf ball out without making me feel small, and didn’t show frustration when I accidentally slammed my putter into his shin.
I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel and groaned. “Oh no. I like him.” That was dangerous. Liking him meant risk, and hope was an idea that had burned me before.
Inside my apartment, the kids slept tangled in blankets, their cheeks soft and warm beneath my fingertips as I tucked them in. My mom was dozing on the couch, glasses still perched on her nose, some crime show humming low in thebackground. Gratitude pinched my chest. Without her, I wouldn’t even have the chance to date again.
I tried to busy myself with packing lunches, rinsing sippy cups, picking up Legos, but my mind was still on him. On the way, he looked at me like I wasn’ttoo much.
Then my phone buzzed.
Hunter:Did you make it home, beautiful?
Thanks for not throwing the game.
I’m still proud of my win.
A laugh slipped out. He was right. I’d never forgive him if he let me win.
Me:I’m home. And I guess I’ll just
have to train for the rematch.
Hunter:Oh, so we’re already planning
a second date?
I pressed the phone to my chest, hating myself for how much I loved the way it felt.
Later, in bed, sleep didn’t come. I replayed the way he leaned close, the way he didn’t flinch at my chaos, the way he teased but never crossed the line. And still, the fear lingered. What if he’s like the rest? What if he gets bored? What if three kids is three too many?
Hunter:So, honest question… if there was
a trophy for worst mini golfer, do you
think you’d win, or should I still enter
the competition?
Me:Bold words for someone who
almost tripped over his
own putter.
