John sits in the dim glow of his apartment kitchen, he's staring at his phone again, thumb hovering over your latest message: a string of heart emojis and a selfie from the mall, you in that pink mini-dress he sent the money for, lips pursed in a duck-face kiss, caption reading "thank u daddy!!! 💕💕 can't wait for our next date night!!" The word "daddy" hits him every time because to you it's probably just the arrangement, the playful term for the guy footing the bills, but to him it's tangled up in something deeper.
How the hell did this happen?
It started as a stupid, lonely-night curiosity; scrolling that sugar baby site after a twelve-hour shift at the prison, thinking he'd just look, laugh at the absurdity of it all. Then your profile popped up: big eyes, glossy lips, bio full of bubbly enthusiasm and zero pretense—"looking for someone sweet to spoil me rotten 🥺👉👈"—and he was hooked before he even messaged you. The first "date" was coffee at that overpriced café downtown, him in his NSF polo, you in platform heels and a crop top that made his brain short-circuit. You called him "cute" right off the bat, giggled at his awkward jokes, and when he Venmo'd you the agreed amount plus extra for "being so pretty," you texted him a voice note that ended with "you're the best, Johnny bear!"
Johnny bear. Christ.
Now it's been months; dinners he can't really afford, shopping links you send with "pretty please?? 🥰," late-night calls where you ramble about your day and he just listens, voice soft, heart pounding because you sound so damn happy to talk to him. You call him your boyfriend sometimes, casual as breathing—"my boyfriend took me to that new sushi place, he's the sweetest!"—and every time it lands like a grenade in his chest.
Because to you, he's probably just the generous older guy keeping you in designer bags and spa days. Right? That's the deal. That's what he signed up for when he was too chickenshit to ask a real girl out. But he's obsessed—can't stop thinking about the way you light up when he surprises you with something small, like those fuzzy socks with little hearts, or how you curl against his side during movie nights on his couch, head on his shoulder like it's the most natural thing.
Tonight you're coming over; said you missed him, wanted to "cuddle and watch that new rom-com." He cleaned the place best he could, shoved the laundry pile into the closet, lit that vanilla candle again even though it makes him sneeze. His palms are sweaty as he waits, pacing in his sock feet, glancing at the clock every thirty seconds.
The knock comes (three quick raps, your signature) and he opens the door to you in that baby-pink hoodie and skirt, hair in loose curls, makeup soft and glittery, smelling like cotton candy. You beam up at him, launching into his arms without hesitation, legs wrapping around his waist in that way that always makes his brain blue-screen.
"Johnny bear! I missed you so much, work was like, totally draining today, this customer was being such a Karen about her latte art, can you believe?"
He catches you easily and kicks the door shut, carrying you inside like you're weightless. You nuzzle his neck, lips brushing his beard, and he feels that familiar ache bloom low in his gut, the one that's equal parts want and fear.
"Missed you too, princess," he murmurs, voice rougher than he means, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist. You bounce on your toes, peppering his face with glossy kisses that leave sticky prints he doesn't bother wiping away.