Chapter Text
You’re already regretting this.
The mirror in your cramped New York apartment is covered in sticky notes with affirmations: You’re brave. You’re worthy. You deserve love. but all you can think about is how ridiculous you feel in this dress.
You tug at the hem, scowling. Why did you even sign up for Adore?
Because your friends found love. Because you’d been tipsy on white wine in some overpriced East Village wine bar, sick of dating apps and ghosting and bad hinge banter, and decided, What the hell. Because the website said 98% success rate and science-backed compatibility and made it sound so easy.
Because a tiny, vulnerable part of you still believes it might actually work.
Your phone pings. It’s from your personal matchmaker:
Your match, Harry Castillo, has confirmed the date for tonight. Reservation at 7:00 p.m
Harry Castillo.
You don’t know much about him, Adore only gives the vaguest details. Mid-to-late 40s. Financier. Brown hair. Brown eyes. 98% compatibility.
No last-minute nerves, the matchmaker had said. He’s been very decisive about meeting you.
You sigh. That had sounded reassuring at the time. Now you wonder if “decisive” just means “controlling.”
You grab your bag and your keys before you can chicken out.
The restaurant Adore picked is in SoHo, all moody lighting, dark wood, exposed brick walls, and flickering candles at every table. You arrive ten minutes early, because your best friend told you never let them think you’re sloppy or late.
So you sit at the tiny table by the window, clutching the menu, trying not to sweat.
Be normal. Be calm. Be charming.
You glance at the time again. 7:02. 7:05.
Your teeth grind.
Maybe he’s the type who’s always late. Or maybe he’s not coming.
But at 7:08, you see him.
Harry Castillo.
He’s tall, probably six feet. Expensive navy suit that fits his broad shoulders perfectly, a dark wool overcoat draped over one arm. Brown hair combed back neatly, just a little gray at the temples. Brown eyes that look you over with all the warm generosity of a loan officer deciding whether to approve you.
Your stomach tightens.
He moves through the dining room like he owns it, stopping at your table with only the briefest frown.
“Sorry,” he says, voice deep and even. “Traffic on Houston was worse than I anticipated.”
No real apology in his eyes. Just a statement of fact.
You try to smile. “It’s fine. I just got here.”
He sits. Signals the waiter immediately without looking at the menu. “Scotch, neat. And for you?”
You blink. “Uh. Wine. Whatever they recommend.”
Harry nods once and leans back, studying you. Like you’re the market trend he’s deciding to short.
“So,” he says finally. “Let’s get this out of the way. What exactly are you looking for here?”
Your fingers tighten on the napkin.
“Excuse me?”
He tilts his head, perfectly calm. “You paid Adore’s premium rate. That’s not cheap. So let’s not waste time. What’s the goal? Marriage? Kids? Financial stability?”
You blink.
Is this...a business meeting?
He doesn’t even look embarrassed. Just watches you like he's taking notes.
You clear your throat, heat crawling up your neck. “I’m...looking for a relationship. Real connection. You know—love?”
Harry raises one eyebrow. “Right.”
You bristle. “Do you have a problem with that?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Not at all. I just prefer to be efficient about it.”
You’re silent, trying to hold onto your temper.
Outside the window, SoHo’s cobblestone street glows under string lights. It should be romantic. Instead, it feels like you’re interviewing for a mortgage.
You take a breath. “So tell me, Harry, what you’re looking for. Since you’re so efficient.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Compatibility. Predictability. Someone who knows what they want.”
Your mouth twitches. “That sounds...incredibly sexy.”
He tilts his head, clearly not picking up the sarcasm. “It’s pragmatic. I don’t have time for games.”
You can’t help yourself, you snort. “Wow. I can see why Adore matched us. I’m so pragmatic. My friends say it all the time. ‘She’s so serious, so predictable.’”
He narrows his eyes slightly. “Sarcasm isn’t productive.”
Your jaw drops. “Are you kidding?”
The waiter arrives with the drinks, setting them down carefully, sensing the tension but wisely staying silent.
Harry takes his scotch, swirls it once, and says in that same cool, measured voice:
“I’m just being honest. You seem...a little scattered. Creative, maybe. That can be appealing, but it’s risky. Unstable.”
Your fingers go cold around your wine glass as you take a sip.
“Unstable?” you repeat, voice dangerously soft.
He nods once, like he’s confirming a business report. “You said you’re freelance, correct? Adore’s intake survey flagged some inconsistent career history. And you move apartments a lot. It suggests you’re—”
Crack.
The sound of your wine glass hitting the table makes him pause.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can hear it in your ears.
“I'm.. What?” you whisper.
He frowns. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I’m pointing out that you may not be ready for—”
Your arm moves before your brain can stop it.
Wine splashes across his perfect white shirt, drips from the collar onto his expensive suit jacket.
Gasps rise from the neighboring tables.
Harry blinks once, the only sign of surprise.
You stand so fast your chair scrapes on the floor.
“Here’s some instability for you,” you spit, voice shaking.
And then you turn on your heel and storm out of the restaurant, head high, face burning, heart pounding with adrenaline and mortification and rage.
Outside, the New York air is biting, the street buzzing with cabs and chatter. You don’t even notice the chill.
You just keep walking, away from the glow of the restaurant, away from Harry Castillo, away from the wreckage of the worst first date you’ve ever had in your entire life.
You swipe angrily at the tears pricking your eyes.
98% compatibility. My ass.