Duane doesn’t look up when the message hits. He’s folded into his dad’s couch in San Jose, long frame bent in pieces that don’t quite work together—one leg stretched, heel planted on the floor, the other hooked over the armrest, knee high, foot dangling. Basketball shorts, gray. White socks. Black slides kicked off halfway across the room. 7'3" and nowhere to put it.
The TV runs, something loud, laugh track bleeding through. He’s not following it.
His phone buzzes again. Work group chat. Same people he just spent eight hours with, standing around pretending to look busy—folding the same shirts, moving the same boxes, manager pacing like it matters. Now they’re all online doing the same thing.
He drags the chat open, thumb slow.
Kayla: “My gay friend just sent me this 😭”Kayla: “This short guy can’t be real lmao”Kayla: (link)
Duane snorts. “Short guy,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay, they're all shorter.” He taps it.
The page loads—blank, then text, then a photo.
He expects a joke.
It isn’t.
A beach shot. Golden light, low sun catching on wet skin. The guy’s turned halfway, looking back over his shoulder like he knows exactly what the angle is doing—water breaking behind him, sand dark beneath his knees. Lean, defined, everything deliberate. Nothing accidental about it. Even the way he’s positioned feels natural, like he’s done it before.
Duane squints. “…what.”
He zooms in. The guy doesn't look particularly small. Just… built that way. Put together. He must be joking about his height.
Too calm.
He scrolls.
Alex, 324’2”, proportionateBlond, blue eyes, discreetShort bottom, looking for similar top — 5’10" maxBored, looking for funCan host
Duane lets out a short laugh. “5'10" max?” he repeats.
His eyes flick back to the photo, then he scrolls the others—all taken in a nice home, kitchen island, clean counters, no junk, no noise. The kind of place that feels like someone chose everything in it.
He glances up without meaning to, looking at his apartment. His dad’s place—lamp too dim, recliner worn in, bottle tipped on its side.
Back to the phone.
“…and he can host? What does that even mean?” Duane says, quieter.
Another message pops in.
Evan: “Fake as hell 😭”Kayla: “IM DEAD”
Duane doesn’t type. He just keeps looking.
There’s nothing loud about it. No begging, no weird angle. Just… direct.
That sticks.
Duane shifts, the couch creaking under him, long leg dragging across the floor to readjust.
Still doesn’t fit right anywhere.
“Must be nice,” he mutters.
His gaze drifts back to the text.
Bored. Looking for fun.
Just like that.
Duane huffs quietly. “Yeah,” he says. “Just show up.”
He thinks about the last girl he tried with—money, drinks, effort, her half-paying attention, scrolling her phone. Still nothing.
Meanwhile this—
He tilts the phone slightly, jaw tightening.
Exhaling through his nose, quieter this time.
“Whole setup,” he mutters.
His thumb drifts down to the message button. He pauses.
Why is he even thinking about this?He's definitely not gay. Not even close. Normally he’d laugh, send it back, keep it moving.
Instead he scrolls up again. His eyes linger on that fat ass, drenched in salt water. Then—
5’10" max.
Duane smirks faintly. “Yeah,” he says, like someone challenged him.
He taps the field. The keyboard slides up. He stares at it for a second, jaw tight, then types:
"You serious about the height thing?"
He watches it sit there. Adds:
"I’m 5’10"
The lie lands easy. Too easy. 7'3" draped across a couch that can’t hold him, typing it like it fits.
Like he’s done this before—just not like this. He's lied about employment, or lifestyle, but girls usually like height, at first.
He leans back, phone resting against his chest, long arm stretched awkward along the cushion. For a second, he considers deleting it.
His thumb hovers.
Doesn’t.
He taps send.
The message goes.
Duane stares at the screen a beat, then locks it and drops it beside him. “Yeah,” he says again, softer. Not laughing this time.
Duane doesn’t expect the reply that fast.
His phone buzzes against his chest. He grabs it, thumb already unlocking.
One message.
"Yeah."
Flat. Period.
He stares at it a second, then a second message drops in.
"Pic?"
Short. Direct.
Duane huffs, shifting upright. The couch creaks as he unfolds. “Of course,” he mutters.
He glances down at himself—basketball shorts, old tee, socks still on. Not worth sending.
His thumb hovers over the camera.
Stops.
Because now it’s different. This isn’t just typing anymore.
His phone buzzes again.
Another message. No text this time. Just an image.
Duane frowns slightly and taps it open.
The photo fills the screen.
Not what he expected. Not a face. Not casual. Something intentional. Framed. Controlled. The kind of picture someone takes on purpose.
Two massive oiled globes facing the camera close-up, one small hand pulling the cheek to the side, the other reaching from beneath, covering everything. A well manicured finger nearly reaches a tiny puckered hole, rosy pink.
Duane goes still.
His grip tightens slightly around the phone.
“…the hell,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
He doesn’t close it right away. Just looks. Then looks again.
Something about it—how direct it is, how unbothered—throws him off more than anything else so far. No hesitation. No buildup. Just sent.
Like it’s normal.
Duane leans back slowly, shoulders pressing into the couch, phone still in his hand. “Alright,” he says under his breath. Not laughing now.
His eyes flick back to the chat.
No follow-up message. No explanation. Just that. Waiting.
Like the next move is his.
Duane exhales through his nose, long and slow. “…yeah. okay.”
And pushes himself up off the couch.Duane stands in the hallway for a second, phone still in his hand.
The house is quiet. TV noise bleeding faint from the living room. Nothing else.
He looks down at the screen again. The image is still open. Still sitting there like it’s taunting him.
He locks his phone.
Then unlocks it again almost immediately.“…alright,” he mutters.
He turns into the bathroom, flicks the light on. Too bright. Fluorescent. Harsh on everything.
He leans toward the mirror anyway.
Tall. Too tall for the frame. He has to dip his head slightly just to see himself straight. Hair’s a mess. Eyes a little glassy. Tank top wrinkled.
He studies himself like it’s someone else.
“5'10",” he says under his breath.
A faint smirk, gone just as fast.
He pulls the tank straight. Tugs it down. Steps back, trying to fit more of himself into the mirror.
Doesn’t work. It never really does.
Clean. Framed. Put together.
This—wasn’t that.
He exhales, annoyed, then lifts the phone.
Front camera.
The screen shows him—long, stretched, awkward in the tight space. He angles it, tries again. Low angle. Worse.
“Damn.”
He adjusts again, stepping into the doorway, using the hall light instead. Better.
He runs a hand over his face, then through his hair. Stops. Looks at himself.
Not perfect. Not clean like the other setup.
But—
He straightens a little. Shoulders back. Like he used to. Like it still matters.
The thought hits and he almost drops it.
He doesn’t.
He snaps the photo. Looks at it.
Not great. Not terrible. Real.
Duane hesitates, thumb hovering over the send arrow.
His chest tightens for a second.
“Whatever,” he says.
He sends it.
The message goes through. Now it’s there. No taking it back.
Duane leans against the doorframe, phone still in his hand, staring at the screen.
Waiting.
The typing bubble pops up. Disappears. Comes back.
Duane’s jaw tightens slightly. “…yeah, that's what I thought.”
His phone buzzes.
New message.
No words. Just a pin.
He taps it.
Map opens. Address in a quiet part of San Jose. Not far. Fifteen minutes.
He stares at it.
“…you serious.”
He doesn’t move. Not right away.
No back-and-forth. No questions. Just sent.
He glances around his dad’s place again. Same dim light. Same nothing.
Back to the phone.
The address sits there, clean. Real.
Duane exhales once, sharp.
Then grabs his slides and shoves his feet into them. Keys off the table. Phone in hand.
He’s already moving.
The drive is quiet.
Windows down, cool air cutting through the Californian night. One hand on the wheel. The other tapping once against it.
GPS voice low. Turn here. Straight. Easy.
Neighborhood changes fast. Cleaner streets. Wider driveways. Houses that look finished.
Duane slows as he pulls up, engine idling. “This place?” he mutters.
Lights on inside. Not bright. Just enough.
He sits there a second longer than he needs to.
Then kills the engine. Gets out. The air feels different here. Quieter.
He walks up the driveway. Stops at the door.
Lifts his hand. Hesitates. Just for a second.
Then—
knocks.
Too hard. Louder than he meant to.
He exhales once.
And waits.
