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I went on a date with him on a whim. He was cute in a quiet way—the kind of man who doesn’t realize how easily he can be bent.

By the time we sat down at the restaurant, the tone was already set. I didn’t ask what he wanted to eat. I told him. I didn’t reach for my wallet either—I simply looked at him, slow and expectant, and he understood. There was something intoxicating about the way he nodded, like he was discovering a part of himself he hadn’t met before.

After dinner, we moved to a whiskey bar—dark wood, low lights, the air heavy with smoke and confidence. He admitted he’d never touched a cigar before. That made it better. I guided his hands, had him cut it properly, light it carefully, and hold it for me like an offering. He poured my drink when I tilted my glass toward him, watching closely, learning my rhythm. He stood just close enough to feel useful, just far enough to feel owned.

Then came the louder bar—the kind filled with heat, bodies, and men who knew exactly how to move. Music pulsed through the room. I told him to invite a few dancers over, to secure us a private couch. He hesitated for half a second, then obeyed. When they joined us, the energy shifted—eyes, smiles, tension in the air.

He stayed at my side the entire time. Refilling glasses. Lighting cigarettes. Kneeling briefly to wipe the dust from my shoes with a focus that made people stare. I could feel his presence before I saw him—attentive, steady, quietly undone by the fact that he was exactly where I wanted him.

By the end of the night, he wasn’t just following instructions anymore. He was anticipating them.

And that was the most delicious part.

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