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KIND OR CALCULATED

T he next day, Timmy has more fun plans for us.

I can’t believe this is only day four or five of my time in Sunset Cay. We’ve already done so much together. What a whirlwind start to my time here!

He has a few work errands to do, so we stop by the hardware store and I pick up some things for my apartment.

He takes me to a couple of tourist destinations and we walk around a big clock tower and look at a pirate ship from a distance. I snap photos as we chat and laugh, and his company is a pleasant distraction from a couple of work emails that threaten to ruin my day. I still can’t believe I’m not going to be working for anyone else in just a few days. Technically, I’m on the clock now, but they don’t expect me to do more than check a few emails here and there.

“They were lucky to have you, and the people who made that decision sound stupid.” Timmy smiles at me, tenderly stroking the hair from in front of my face. “They’re going to feel it when you’re gone, for sure. But that’s okay, because now you’ll have a ton more time to spend with me!”

“I will be writing, though,” I frown. “Like, it has to be something I treat as a real, full-time job. ”

“And I’ll support you every step of the way,” he smiles, placing his hand on my lower back. He makes me feel safe and secure, reassured, with even the most simple of gestures. How lucky I am to have met this incredible human.

Later in the day, he has a few hours of work to do. So while he tends to a condo renovation, I go to one of my favorite local bars for a martini while I get some writing done.

The bartender makes me the wrong one, thinking I want some sickly sweet concoction instead of their signature olive brine-infused dry option, and I end up with two martinis. I decide to take one for the team and enjoy them both.

The setting is inspiring, a cute little bar tucked inside a trendy hotel with a pool right in the middle of their lobby. It’s art deco and vibey, and sitting there people-watching inspires me through a few chapters.

I feel warm and fuzzy by the end of the second martini, and as I take my last sip, Timmy texts me to let me know he’s done with work. I settle my check and wander back to my apartment, feeling light and free and like everything is exactly how it’s meant to be.

Later that evening

“Don’t look!” he says. “Just keep watching the show!”

“Okay,” I grin. I’m tempted to sneak a peek as I hear him rustling around behind me, but I resist the urge and keep my gaze on the screen.

“Surprise!” he says, grinning from ear to ear as he stands in front of me, his hands spread wide like he’s just unveiled a masterpiece. “I know moving and getting things set up can be stressful, so I wanted to make this feel even more like home for you!” His tone is warm and gentle. I blink, taking it all in.

Everything is perfectly arranged—while the apartment isn’t exactly inspiring based on its layout—a narrow rectangle—he’s managed to make it look like something out of a design magazine .

I thought the initial setup he'd done had been pretty amazing, but there were still a lot of items to find homes for, and he's done it so I don't need to worry.

The bed is still positioned just right to catch the soft light of sunrise through the window, now with a cozy throw draped elegantly over the end. The pillows are positioned to create a fluffy backrest so that the bed can serve as a couch, and the stuffed animals have been positioned across them thoughtfully, as if they’re acting out a scene. Even my books have been meticulously organized on a side table, almost like an artful display of who I am.

“Oh wow, this is amazing!” I say, my heart swelling with gratitude. I can’t believe how thoughtful he’s been. Every detail, from the throw pillows to the neatly organized kitchen counters and drawers, seems to have been planned with me in mind. It feels like he’s gone out of his way to make the space perfect. “I don’t even know what to say… thank you!” I turn to him, beaming, and he leans down for a kiss.

“You can show me,” he growls, grinning, and my pussy clenches.

There’s a momentary flicker of something in his eyes—something so subtle I figure I’m imagining it. “I just want to make sure everything’s just right for you here. I know it’s much more calming to have things uncluttered and less chaotic. You’ve mentioned having your friends help you set up apartments before, and I know you’re far away from everyone you know, except me. This way, you don’t have to worry about it. I really enjoyed doing this for you.” His words are kind and reassuring, but there’s a subtle weight behind them, as if he’s done me a favor I now owe him for.

I’m too busy marveling at how perfect everything looks, how at home I feel in this space, to think too much of it. But over the next few days, little comments begin to slip into our conversations. “I spent hours organizing your apartment, you know,” he says casually, a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s probably better if we keep things how they are. I thought about putting it there, but the way I set it up is better…” And whenever I reach to rearrange something, even the tiniest amount, he’ll appear out of nowhere, gently placing his large ha nd on mine, saying, “Don’t you like it the way I have it set up? The way I arranged things is better. I put a lot of thought into it.”

At first, I brush it off, still basking in how kind it was of him to have done all this for me. Lending me his mattress, taking me shopping, arranging everything so I didn’t have to worry about it. But slowly, it’s becoming clear that this isn’t just about helping me. The apartment, this space that was supposed to be mine, has somehow become a reflection of him—his tastes, his control, his influence. The entire bathroom is covered in soft lilac towels and bathmats and poufs, because that’s Timmy’s favorite color. The kitchen is covered in odd trinkets I never would have picked out for myself. And the bed, the center of it all, is festooned in the ugly quilt that holds sentimental value to him, covering up the much brighter, more fun, more me duvet cover that we’d picked out at the store.

What I had thought was an incredibly thoughtful gesture has strings attached, invisible at first, but now tightening around me. And yet, part of me still feels guilty for even thinking that way, as if I’m being ungrateful for all that he’s done.

I realize I’ve mistaken his grandiose gestures of kindness for generosity and altruism, not seeing that it was always about Timmy—his need to control, to claim the space as his own while making it seem like he was doing it all for me.

It’s not my home, it’s his stage, and I’m just the audience, dazzled by yet another of his performances.