Jake Sim had never considered himself particularly interesting.

He played hockey. He majored in sports medicine. He ate grilled chicken almost every day and posted the occasional mirror selfie with a shy caption like “game day” or “not bad lighting today lol.” His Instagram was quiet, filtered in soft neutrals, with blurry skate shots and group photos with his teammates.

His latest post was just him in a grey hoodie, hair slightly wet from practice, holding an iced coffee. Nothing dramatic. Just a normal guy.

So why did his phone buzz at 2:13 AM with a DM from someone with a username he definitely hadn’t followed?

He clicked it.

And nearly dropped his phone.

[@MilkMystique]: “Hey. You free?”

He blinked. Then did something he almost never did.

He clicked your profile.

No face. Just lips. A curve of shoulder. Fingers wrapped around whipped cream and melting ice cream cones. A lot of skin. Too much for his already overworked heart.

He choked on nothing.

Jake had no idea why you messaged him of all people. You had 140k followers. Your tweets were… well. He didn’t know what to call them. “Explicit” didn’t even begin to cover it. You were kind of terrifying.

He was frozen, thumb hovering over the screen. He stared at your message again.

“Hey. You free?”

Free for what?

No. No, he couldn’t reply. What if his teammates saw it? What if it was a prank? What if this was a joke and he was being filmed right now?

He locked his phone.

Then unlocked it again in five seconds.

⸻

Meanwhile, you were bored.

You’d been scrolling for hours, rejecting every gym selfie and flashy watch guy who posted in DMs like they were God’s gift to the internet. But Jake was… different. Clean. Soft-looking. Something about his nervous smile made you tilt your head.

You weren’t even sure why you messaged him. Maybe because he didn’t try. Maybe because his shirt clung a little in all the right places but he didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe because he looked like the type of boy who’d say “thank you” after getting kissed.

You grinned.

He hadn’t replied yet. But you had a feeling he’d seen it.

So you sent another one.

[@MilkMystique]: “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna eat you.”

Pause.

[@MilkMystique]: “Unless you ask nicely.”

⸻

Jake dropped his phone this time.

His roommate looked over. “Dude, you okay?”

Jake faceplanted into his pillow and muffled a scream.

Jake was a mess.

This wasn’t a bot. This wasn’t a spam link. This was you. Real. Online. DMing him. And Jake Sim, shy hockey major and certified blusher, had no idea what to say.

“Just say something normal,” he muttered to himself, pacing in front of his bed in socks and sweats.

“Hi” felt too dry.

“Hey, I saw your profile and—” No. Creepy.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror and sighed.

“…Do I look like the type of guy who gets DMs from hot anonymous porn bloggers with, um… very good photography skills?”

The mirror offered no answers.

Finally, he typed:

[@jake.sim]: “uh… hi???”