Chapter Text
As you allow a deep, long breath inside your lungs, your stomach tightens. Chewing on your thumb, you scroll down the screen, your insides fluttering wildly at the sight of the variety of choices and the amount of details given for each. Your eyes widen. The idea of such a thing existing never crossed your mind. When a colleague at work suggested it, you laughed it off and never brought it up again. Yet… here you are. It’s kind of ironic and a little pathetic.
Curled up on your sofa under a warm blanket, you are actually giving the peculiar service a try.
A symphony of conflicting emotions roars inside you, apprehension the loudest by far. You never thought you’d plummet to that point, to needing, no…craving that.
"This is insane," you mutter to yourself. "What am I even doing?"
You scowl down at your phone, absently perusing the site. In the background, a game show is playing on television. You’ve long since lost interest in it. Your current existential crisis is much more attention-grabbing. To fill out or not fill out a form. That is the daunting, terrifying question.
One of your nails shatters the silence as it cracks, surrendering to the abuse of your relentless teeth. You wince and curse, your phone slipping from your hand. The glass screen breaks and you lament the fact that you just replaced it. You won’t get the money to fix that clumsy mistake for a few weeks at least. But the concerns regarding your phone rapidly dwindle as your gaze falls on the page you opened by accident.
Settling back on the sofa, you blink. Your jaw hangs slack. The page has been visited over a thousand times. What are the odds you’d send a request and get a positive response? It’s ludicrous and delusional. Yet…
Your fingers itch with the pressing desire to try and register anyway.
You loathe how your heart hums pleasantly as you glimpse at the profile picture and read the bio accompanying it. Every other profile intimidated you or left you skeptical. The guys boast too much or their pictures feel so… staged. Not this one however. There isn’t much information, except for some basic facts. And the picture is unassuming, even…sweet.
He isn’t trying. He’s just being. And, immediately, you’re at ease.
Peter seems like a good choice, a safe choice. His soft, boyish smile radiates kindness and warmth. You could really use that at the moment. Some warmth.
So you cave in. Registering takes less than two minutes, the process quick and effortless, like everything online these days. You don’t hesitate to connect your Paypal to the website, a little dubious when you receive an email letting you know you’ve started your free trial and will get to experience the service three times without needing to forward any sort of payment. Then, whether or not you keep using the service is entirely up to you. The agreement is non-binding and you can cancel at any time. You gasp. All of it seems too good to be true.
Part of you wonders if it’s a scam, a cruel joke to lonely, broke women. A way to kick you while you’re down.
You sigh. It must be, because your request for Peter has just been accepted. He is expected to show up in just one hour.
Panic is your first response. Your apartment is a pigsty. You alternate between giggling at yourself for getting so worked up over a website probably created as a joke by a bored teenager and obsessively combing every inch of your place to wage war against every speck of dust and discarded item of clothing you find.
Lost in clearing out your table and wiping the counters, you freeze when the doorbell rings.
Your breath snags in your throat. Your eyes dart to the clock hanging on the wall. An hour has already snuck by. Too absorbed in your desperate endeavor to make your space less chaotic, you didn't notice.
Other, new concerns rush through your brain. Maybe you just did something beyond stupid and are about to be violently murdered in your own home. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe-
"Hey, is anyone home?" The voice on the other side of the door pierces through your frenzy. You swallow thickly. He sounds young - younger than you - so that part must be true at least.
Your trembling legs propel you to the door somehow. Insides buzzing with nervousness, you crack open the entrance as your eyes grow. You could pick your jaw off the floor from sheer shock.
"H-Hi. I just can’t believe you’re-"
"Actually here?" Humor’s laced in the young man’s airy tone. Still basking in disbelief, you fidget in your spot. Brown curls frame slender, boyish features. He’s dressed in simple jeans and a white shirt. There’s a slight smile on his thin lips. He looks even better than his picture.
"I’m Peter, though I guess you probably already know that."
When you stare at his outstretched hand, narrowing your eyes, he shoves it back in his pocket casually. "You don’t have to give yours." He catches you glancing at the empty corridor and his mouth quirks upward. "You can share as little or as much as you want about yourself."
"Good to know," you curtly respond, your fingers tight on the door handle.
"Can I come in? If that’s cool with you, of course. It's a little cold outside." His words are empty of expectation and he remains right where he is, as if to ensure you know the decision of whether to let him in or not is up to you.
A little stunned, you acquiesce.
"I…sure."
Peter’s steps are slow as he enters. Anxiety flows in your veins, but his dark gaze is bereft of judgement as it runs over your space.
"You have a nice home."
You shake your head in apology, picking a few more errant items off the floor. You should have tidied up more. In your defense, it never occurred to you that Peter would really show up. As with everything in your life, you expected disappointment.
"Thank you. Sorry it’s a little messy."
His smile broadens.
"Don’t worry about it. It looks great."
Fiddling with your hands, you plod to the sofa. As you take a seat, you can’t summon the nerve to meet Peter’s eyes.
"So, should we…talk about what this is?" Noticing him still standing, hands in the pockets of his jacket, you rush to offer, "You can sit."
"Thanks," Peter says. You’re grateful he sits far enough to keep a safe distance between the two of you. "If that’s what you want, of course." He pauses, his brown gaze locking with yours. "This is for you after all." Your face overflows with heat. The pleasant scents of soap and Peter’s cologne enter your lungs. The damp curls clinging to his forehead do not elude you either. Did he shower before coming here? "Do you have questions for me?" he gently inquires.
Gnawing on your lip, you ponder your words before uttering them. You search Peter’s face. His expression is earnest.
"Are there things I should know to avoid…discomfort for us both?"
Peter tilts his head.
"I don’t think you could ever make me uncomfortable." His expression is soft as he focuses on your nervous stance. "It’s your first time using the service, isn’t it?"
You scratch your arm.
"Is it that obvious?"
A soft chuckle escapes his lips.
"A little."
Your brows crumple.
"I just know the basics listed on the homepage. We’re not a dating app, or a matchmaking website, or an escort company…" you recite, quoting the website.
Peter nods.
"I mean, that’s the gist of it." He licks his lips, easing back into the sofa. "I think, after the blip, people were more lonely than ever, lost… It's when the service was created. To make people feel less alone, experience a connection, even if it’s just for a day or night."
"What about you?"
Peter lowers his head, laughing again but, this time, it’s forlorn. Your heart pinches at his crestfallen face.
"I-I lost a lot of people too, but not because of the blip. Just stupid mistakes." Wistfulness darkens his orbs. "I miss them everyday, so I get how it’s like to feel lonely."
Sensing the shift in his mood, you don’t press him for details.
"Are there any rules?" you ask instead.
"What happens between the customers and us is entirely up to what we’re both comfortable with," Peter replies, his tone once again cheerful. "But after ten dates, we’re encouraged to move on," he admits. "They say it’s to avoid unhealthy attachments. And, some things are hm… not exactly forbidden but strongly discouraged."
"Things like…"
"Like sex," he blurts out.
"Oh," you gasp, taken aback by his bluntness.
"Yeah."
Peter’s cheeks glow pink as he scratches the back of his neck, as if he just realized what he said.
"Has that ever happened with a client?"
Avoiding your scrutiny, Peter answers truthfully, "A couple times."
"And the company doesn’t mind?"
He shrugs. "They don’t care what I do as long as they get their cut."
"And you don’t mind being used?"
He shakes his head.
"I don't think of it like that. I never do anything I don’t wanna do. Same with my clients." His pitch bleeds seriousness. "Respecting clients’ personal boundaries is a big part of the service."
Your face warms as you tug on the sleeves of your sweater. "Well, it’s not something I’ll ever ask of you."
There’s a ponderous silence during which Peter’s stare prickles your frame. He then gives a simple nod.
"Okay. Is there anything I can do for you then, princess?"
Befuddled, you blink at him. "Princess?"
Peter’s bashful smile endears you to him even more. "You’re very pretty like one, and I get you don’t want to give your name yet, but I have to call you something." A hint of incertainty leaks from his words. "If you hate it, I won’t do it."
You quickly reassure him. "No, it’s fine. It just feels…strange to have someone call me that. No one’s ever done that before."
His face brightens even more.
"So I’ll be the first then," he chimes.
Quiet expectation hovers between you and him and you begin squirming on your side of the sofa.
Shame burns inside you as you confess, "I don’t know what I want. I just knew I wanted someone there, but now I don’t know. I’m not sure…"
"Have you already eaten?"
You gape at Peter in confusion.
"No, I haven’t."
He clasps his hands and bolts upright.
"How about I make you something then? There’s this Italian meal my aunt always used to make. She even said my stomach must be a bottomless pit cause we never had leftovers whenever she made it."
Fondness brims from him when he speaks of her, his brown orbs sparkling.
"She sounds amazing."
"She was."
A veil of gloominess drapes over his face again.
"Was? Is she-"
"Is that your kitchen?"
Peter ignores your question, hopping towards the kitchen area and rummaging through your cabinets.
"Peter, I honestly don’t know if I have enough ingredients to make anything."
You don’t cook very often, surviving on instant noodles and frozen dinners. Still, Peter’s undeterred by the desolate state of your fridge and begins to gather various things from it.
"It’s okay. It doesn’t require much," he argues, brushing off your concerns and tossing his jacket over a chair. "Just sit back and relax, princess."
"I…"
"Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out. I’m a pretty resourceful guy."
His confident grin placates you and you lean back, admiring the spectacle of this complete stranger busying himself in your kitchen. When you filled out a form on a random website, it’s not where you expected your night to go at all.
You also can't help but be mesmerized by the sight of his muscles glistening in the low light as he vigorously stirs the contents of a pan. Sometimes, he lifts his head and beams at you and all you can do is stare in wonder. You thought tonight you’d be alone, like every other night. And here is this guy, this Peter, cooking for you like he’s on a mission to make sure you’re well-fed. It’s uncanny.
"Here you go," he says, putting a portion of what he made on one of the forgotten plates previously collecting dust in the back of one your cabinets.
Steam rises from the meal and your mouth waters as the delicious scent invades your nose. Peter pulls a chair for you, pouring white wine in a stemless glass.
"I have wine?" you inquire, bewildered.
Eyes wide, you sit as Peter snorts.
"Seems like it. It helped with the risotto."
He pours himself a glass too, sitting near you at the table.
"Can you even drink?" you deadpan, comfortable enough to take a stab at his ego with light jests.
Mock hurt covers his features as he places a hand on his chest.
"Ouch. I'm twenty-four, I'll have you know."
Your mouth curves into a small smile.
"So a whole adult with a job, even a couple of sketchy ones."
Peter's grin is wide and playful.
"We just met and you're already so mean to me, princess. Why?"
You arch your eyebrow tauntingly.
"You're the one who signed up to show up at random women's houses, Peter. I could be an axe murderer, you know."
His gaze softens as he leans his cheek against his palm.
"Then, I'll happily be your victim."
You're silent for a while, stunned he played along with your morbid joke.
Twirling the creamy rice on your plate with a fork, you mumble, "You're a weird one."
"Come on. Have a bite," Peter encourages, seeing you pick at the food hesitantly.
You swallow the lump in your throat, his intent stare tying your stomach in knots. You pluck some rice from the plate and blow on it before lifting it to your mouth. You take your time chewing, self-conscious of Peter's unwavering focus on you.
"It's… really good," you say genuinely. Despite making copious amounts of food, you realize that Peter doesn't have a plate in front of him. "You're not eating?"
His shoulders slump. "I prefer watching you."
"Again, weird." His soft laugh makes your chest swell with warmth. "But thank you. I really appreciate it." You sigh. A wave of bitter sweetness surges inside you. You’d have to dive back to your childhood memories to recall an instance of someone else cooking for you. You keep your tears in, suppressing a sob, unwilling to break down in front of Peter. While he’s kind, he’s still a stranger.
Instead, you nudge a grateful smile on your face.
"This was amazing. I don't think I could make something this good for myself."
Peter expels a deep breath, his forehead scrunching.
"I burned some of it."
"I couldn't even tell." It’s true. You can hardly taste the burnt bits, the rich flavors overpowering them.
A yawn climbs up your throat before you can stop it.
Confounded, you whisper an apology.
Peter peers at you with compassion.
"You're tired."
He follows your glance as it strays to the clock. Your lips purse as you swallow another mouthful.
"It's getting a little late. I have work in the morning." You squeeze the fork as worry grows inside you. "What usually happens with hm… others at a time like this?"
Peter’s lids drop as he drinks in your expression. There’s a glint in his eye you can’t identify. You bite on your lip, pointedly avoiding his gaze. Peter admitted what he did with other clients and, while you applaud his honesty, you wouldn’t be comfortable wandering those paths. Not now, maybe not ever. You audibly inhale when his hand lands on your arm, a mere graze that still allows heat to seep from his palm to your skin. Your heart thunders and your throat tightens. Peter’s touching you. You try not to panic. Peter’s harmless, you keep repeating to yourself. He’s proven that. Still, you can’t quiet the distress blooming inside you as his touch lingers.
"They don't matter. It's just you and me right now," he assures. His hand swiftly detaches from your arm, his expression pinching with concern. You swallow and breathe, air filling your lungs again. Peter cocks his head. "I can leave if you'd prefer it. Whatever makes you happy, princess."
Dropping the fork, you quaver, "I-I need to go to bed, but I also don't want you to go. Not yet. Unless you have to be somewhere…" Your words trail off as insecurity grips you tight, refusing to let go. You must sound so desperate.
"You're my only priority right now," Peter murmurs, his soft voice barely above a whisper. "I think we can work something out, if you're comfortable with it."
Scrunching your nose, you engulf yourself deeper in the blanket. "This isn't too weird, is it?"
"I’ve done weirder things," Peter says matter-of-factly. Not once has he made fun of you, despite the situation being sort of comical. You, buried beneath a blanket, while he is above it next to you on the bed. Both close and far enough for comfort.
Both of you could easily reach out and touch each other, but you don’t. Because Peter, who you’ve only known for a few hours, somehow understands your boundaries better than anyone you’ve ever met.
"Oh god, do I even want to know what that means?" you say.
Peter sniggers.
"Even if I told you, I don’t think you’d believe me, princess."
You roll your eyes.
"Please…you make it sound like you’re one of those superpeople with a secret identity or something."
Your sentence concludes with a yawn and he pulls the blanket over you. You feel his fingertips for half a second before they’re gone.
"You should go to sleep," he urges.
Exhaustion tussles with you until you yield, your lids sagging on their own. A mournful sigh floats from your lips.
"I assume you’ll be gone when I wake up."
As you sink into slumber, the ghost sensation of fingertips along your cheek briefly flashes through the fog.
Peter’s faint promise is the last thing you hear.
"I’m here and I'm not going anywhere, princess."