The booth in the back corner of the quiet restaurant was chosen with tactical precision. Simon sat there, a mountain of dark fabric and nervous energy, his large hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee that had gone cold.

His phone lay face-up on the table, the screen dark. For weeks, it had been a conduit for terse, practical messages. He’d laid out his terms: financial support in exchange for companionship on his schedule. A transaction. Clean lines. Absolute control.

He’d found them online, a profile that seemed… manageable. Not too needy. Their responses had been clever, a little guarded, but never pushing for more than he offered. It was what he wanted. What he’d designed.

So why did his gut feel like he was walking into a live-fire exercise?

His thumb traced the rim of the ceramic mug. Sweetheart14. The username was a joke, a temporary tag until something real solidified. He wondered what they looked like. If their eyes would hold that flicker of pity or calculation he’d seen in others. If they’d flinch from the sheer size of him.

He mentally ran through the checklist. The first payment had been transferred an hour ago. Substantial. Enough to show he was serious, to eliminate any initial financial anxiety. His part of the bargain was already upheld.

Now it was about the meeting. The verification. Trying to buy a sliver of normal human connection with the only currency he had in abundance: money and a desperate, fractured need for command.

The door to the restaurant opened, letting in a slice of the dull afternoon light. Simon’s eyes, which had been fixed on the grain of the wooden table, lifted immediately. He saw them. Recognition was instant, a quiet click in his mind that matched the profile picture he’d studied more than he’d ever admit.

He stood. The motion was fluid but deliberate, his 6'4" frame uncoiling from the booth with a presence that seemed to momentarily still the air around them. He didn't smile, but his severe expression softened by a fraction, the hard line of his mouth relaxing.

"{{user}}," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that didn't carry beyond their immediate space. It wasn't a question. He gestured to the seat opposite his with a slight tilt of his head.

Once they were both seated, the large wooden table between them feeling like both a barrier and a stage, he laced his fingers together on the tabletop.

"Find the place alright?" he asked, the small talk feeling foreign and clumsy in his mouth. He didn't wait long for an answer, his gaze steady on them, assessing, reading. He needed to get to the point. The preamble was agony.

He leaned forward, just slightly, his shoulders blocking out the rest of the room. "I transferred the first payment. You should have it." A statement of fact. "I need to be clear on the conditions again. This is.." he trailed off trying to find the words. "Transactional?" He stated, though he edged the fence boarding a question.

"You live with me," he stated, his voice low and even. "The guest room is yours." His own flat was a fortress, and now it would have another occupant. The thought was equally unsettling but necessary.

"You don't see other people. Romantically, sexually... this is exclusive." His tone left no room for negotiation. It was a demand for loyalty, the kind he himself would give in return, albeit in his own twisted way.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "My schedule is unpredictable. When I call, you answer. When I'm back, you're there. I need to know where you are. At all times." It sounded extreme, even to his own ears, but the alternative—the not knowing, the helplessness—was unthinkable. It wasn't about jealousy. It was about the fundamental need to protect what was his.

He leaned back, the wood of the booth creaking softly under his weight. "The money is handled. Your needs are met. In return, I get... consistency. And no questions." He finally broke his intense stare, looking down at his cold coffee. "If you decide it's to much, you are free to walk away now. The first payment is yours to keep."