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Instead, we get Temu bodycons that showcase every gram of cellulite you possess to the world and must be worn with boob tape that severs half your nipple when you peel it off at the end of the night. We get dating apps that are mostly just men holding up various fishes. We getChad.

God, I am so not attracted toChad.

But what’s waiting for me if I reject all the Chads of the world? Loneliness, that’s what. Cobwebs in my coochie. I’ll be eaten bythe many cats I’ll no doubt soon begin to acquire, and nobody will care until the neighbors notice the smell of my decomposing body. When that happens, I’ll get a two-sentence obituary, just like Lukas’s wife, but with none of the mysterious allure.

Rae Everett died morbidly after a really sad, depressing life. She was a virgin.

I drink half my glass and force myself to keep scrolling. I can’t go out like that. Back to the apps we go.

David, 27, teacher. He has kind eyes and a cute dog in his profile pic. That’s promising, right? Everyone likes dogs.

But David is five-foot-six according to his bio. Which is fine—height doesn’t matterthatmuch. I’m not even five-four; he’d still be taller than me.

Except now, I’m thinking about what it felt like to stand next to Lukas on my stoop. He seemed to fill every inch of available space just byexisting. I had to crane my neck to look up at him. And something in that—even if it’s adumbsomething, a blind, primitive instinct to be shielded by a big man against the many dangers of the world—makes me feel squiggly inside in a good way.

I swipe left on David, too.

This is stupid. I’m being stupid. I switch to Bumble. New app, new possibilities. Isn’t that what they say? Well, someone’s probably said that before.

But no. Ten minutes later, I’ve swiped left on everyone. A personal trainer whose over-edited gym selfies make me tired just looking at them. A lawyer who seems nice but also like he’d talk about himself for three hours straight. A musicianwhose profile is nothing but photos of him holding a guitar in increasingly dramatic and decreasingly clothed poses. A realtor. A doctor. Another lawyer. A third lawyer. So many lawyers. Why does the world need this many lawyers?

None of them are wrong, exactly. They’re just notright.

I know what I’mactuallylooking for. I hate that I know.

I’m looking for someone who makes my pulse race when he walks into a room. Someone who consumes the space around him. Someone whose voice could pin me to a wall without him even touching me.

I’m looking for Lukas Lazarev.

And that’s a big, big problem.

Defeated, I toss my phone onto the cushion beside me and throw back the last of my wine.

This is pathetic.Iam pathetic. I am a healthy, in-my-prime, reasonably symmetrical twenty-five-year-old woman in the most happening city on Planet Earth. And yet I’m sitting all alone on a Friday night, rejecting perfectly good men simply because none of them are a sixty-year-old billionaire who could not care less if I lived or died and was eaten by cats.

I decide to go take a shower. I’m going to wash off this weird day, this weird week. A little self-care can fix a whole lot of badness.

At least, that’s what I decideconsciously.

But my subconscious has other plans.

Instead of turning right into my bathroom, my feet carry me left, into my bedroom. Up to my nightstand. My hands, operating entirely of their own accord, open the top drawer. They pull outthe purple silicone toy I bought three years ago and have used maybe four times since.

I shouldn’t do this.

I really, really shouldn’t do this.

But I’m already kicking off my sweatpants. Already climbing under the covers, closing my eyes.

The dream comes back like it never left.

Lukas’s office. The cold marble floor under my knees. His hand in my hair, forcing my head back. His thumb pressing against my lower lip.

“Open.”

I turn on the vibrator. The low hum fills the quiet room.

In my head, he’s standing over me. Miles and miles and endless miles of him. Navy suit, silver rings, those scarred hands that could break me without trying.