And yet, I don’t pull away.
Because right now, the pull of him is too strong.
And I can’t seem to find my way out.
49
DENTACLE PORN
It’s starting to get heavy—this strange, chaotic dynamic with Timmy. Every time I buy something for myself, I feel the tugging obligation to buy for two. At first, it seemed like a sweet gesture. It’s not that he demands it, because Timmy rarely asks for anything outright.
It’s the way he looks at me when I have something and he doesn’t—a flash of need, followed by that wide grin when I give in. He’s always so appreciative. His eyes light up like a child at Christmas, and he’ll wrap me in his big arms, pressing kisses to my forehead. “You’re the best, my love,” he murmurs. And in those moments, my doubts float away, carried off by the tide of affection he pours over me.
But each little expense is chipping away at my savings, and I can feel it—subtle, but insistent. I didn’t budget for this. When I moved here, I imagined my expenses would be manageable—just me, living on my own terms, maintaining my corporate job. I never planned to be thrust into unemployment, let alone also financially responsible for another grown adult, all while trying to build my fledgling author business. But Timmy has a way of turning everything into an adventure, convincing me that it’s fine to split a plate of fries or share a beer. It feels romantic, like we’re a team, and it’s not like he’s pushing it,trying to order the most expensive items on the menu or anything like that.
Except, I can’t help but feel twitchy. There’s something in the back of my mind—an old memory stirring. Years ago, I had a friend who played this same game. They’d accompany me to restaurants and bars, insisting they didn’t need anything, only to end up sharing half of mine, because of course I’d inevitably offer them some, rather than have them sit there watching me eat and drink. Or worse, I’d cave and buy them their own, just to avoid the awkwardness. And here I am again—buying for two, convincing myself it’s not a big deal.
It’s not just the money. It’s the slow erosion of a boundary I swore I’d never cross again. I told myself I wouldn’t let someone mooch off me, not like before. And yet, here I am, tangled in the same web.
The difference this time? Timmy isn’t just some friend crashing on my couch. He’s the man I love, the one who says all the right things and makes me feel special in ways I’ve never experienced. And that scares me.
After the workcall is over, Timmy busies himself decorating my kitchen with the random trinkets he revealed on the beach. It’s all stuff he brought over from Matty’s—things that are either bizarre or useless. A spice organizer that looks like it belongs in the 1970s, tiny plastic animals, random shells, and of course, the miniature skateboard.
“I cleaned everything really well,” he says proudly, as if he’s just performed some grand act of service.
I smile, but internally I’m cringing. The last thing I need is more clutter. Still, it’s a sweet gesture, in its own strange way. He’s trying to make this place ours, filling it with things that make him smile. And I love him for that, even if I plan to discreetly disinfect everything later.
For lunch, I whip up my famous potato salad—my go-to recipe for barbecues and gatherings. The smell of garlic, capers, andfreshly boiled potatoes fills the apartment. As I mix everything together, Timmy sneaks over, dips a finger into the bowl, and takes a taste.
“Fuck, that’s delicious!” he says, grinning at me like a kid who’s just stolen a cookie from the jar. “I’m so glad I’m with someone who cooks.”
“Same,” I reply, smiling back. In these moments, I feel the warmth of our connection. It’s not all bad. We share these little joys—me through food, him through spontaneous affection.
He likes to share food plates with me and feed me, so we have our potato salad from a shared plate.
“Blow on it first. It’s hot,” he’ll say when he puts the spoon near my mouth for me to take a sip of one of his soothing broths. “I don’t want you to burn your mouth.”
They’re such simple gestures, and they’re touching. A little weird, I suppose. I know it gives some people a major ick, but when he feeds me, it makes me feel like he really cares about me. There’s a gentle tenderness about the way he does it as well.
But then, mid-dishes, something shifts.
He grabs my brand-new chef’s knife and, with no warning, stabs it through a lemon and into my new wooden cutting board, splintering it down the middle.
“Timmy!” I exclaim, heart racing. “You just ruined the cutting board and probably damaged the blade! Why did you do that?”
He shrugs, a smug grin on his face. “Because it looks cool.”
I stare at the ruined cutting board, stunned. He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture, uploading it to Instagram without a second thought.
“Can you please be more careful with my things?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just… don’t go around stabbing stuff, okay? It’s unnecessary.”
He freezes, the grin slipping from his face. His expression shifts, darkening. His jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare. For a moment, I think he’s going to laugh it off, but his eyes narrow, locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a chill down my spine.
“It’s just a stupid fucking cutting board,” he growls, his voice low and sharp.
He yanks the knife out of the board with a jerk, the blade clattering into the sink, making me wince. I know, without looking, that one of my new dishes is now chipped as well.
“You care more about that dumb piece of wood than you do about me,” he mutters, his tone bitter.