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COCK-BLOCKER

A few days later

The sun is warm and bright as we wander down the main shopping strip lined with colorful stores. Timmy was apologetic the morning after his Irish bar antics, blaming his behavior on drinking too much, and he’s been relatively calm ever since.

“Come,” says Timmy, grabbing my hand in his and leading me into an indoor arcade.

We go into a surf shop that smells like sunscreen, saltwater and soft cotton, the kind of place that feels sun-kissed and easygoing. Boards are stacked along the perimeter, and racks of T-shirts, board shorts and caps also line the walls. As we wander in, a low indie song drifts from the speakers, adding to the laid-back vibe.

I have so much fun exploring surf shops with Timmy. He gets so excited discovering the latest designs, although he’s always confident he could design something much more interesting himself. And, based on what he’s shown me so far, I’m also confident he can.

I trail behind Timmy, my fingers brushing against soft hoodies and linen beach pants. The store feels alive with colors that represent the ocean and our tropical location—bright blues, pastel pinks, sandy neutrals—the lighting causing everything to glow with a sunny, golden hue.

Timmy, as usual, gravitates toward the hats. He scans the shelves thoughtfully, his fingers tapping on the bills of a few before he picks up two. He holds them against me, selecting one. “This is the one,” he grins, holding it out to me. “Try this on,” and then he turns me so I can see myself in the mirror.

It’s pretty, from a popular surf brand, a black hat with brightly colored plumeria and a map of Sunset Cay on the bottom of the bill.

I hesitate for a second, surprised by how deliberate he’s being, then I take the cap and slip it onto my head. The fabric feels cool against my skin, and the color underneath the bill automatically warms my complexion.

He steps back, tilting his head slightly as he studies me, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s my beautiful girl,” he says, gazing at me in adoration and kissing me. “You should definitely get this one. It looks perfect on you.”

I glance at myself in the mirror, adjusting the hat slightly. I’m struck by how good it looks—how it seems to brighten my whole face. It’s not a pattern I would likely have chosen for myself, but somehow it works—like it was made just for me.

I look back at Timmy, my heart swelling with a combination of pride and gratitude.

“How did you know?” I ask softly, running my fingers beneath the bill.

He shrugs, but there’s a cocky confidence in the way he smiles at me. “I just know what looks good on you. It matches your beautiful skin tone. I’m a pretty amazing designer, you know. I know all about color profiles and what suits you.” His gaze lingers, warm and appreciative, like he’s proud of the way the cap brings out something unique about me—something only he could notice.

I feel a flush rise in my cheeks, not from embarrassment, but at how he’s made me feel in this moment. It’s not just about the cap. It’s the way he pays attention—real attention—noticing things about me that nobody else has .

I’ve never had a man really help me pick out clothing before. He pays attention to my complexion and knows why certain colors go together. Whenever I’ve shopped with other guys, I’ve had to drag them kicking and screaming to the store. And then they’ve waited while I’ve tried things on. And occasionally, begrudgingly, helped me decide between two items that I’d selected by myself. But with Timmy, it’s like having my own very cute personal stylist who loves the shit out of me.

For a moment, standing there under the soft glow of the store’s lights, the world feels a little bit smaller and sweeter. Timmy, confident and carefree, in his element, and me, standing beside him, feeling beautiful in a way I never expected.

I pull the cap off and hold it in my hands, a small smile playing across my lips. “Okay,” I say quietly, touched by the simple, thoughtful gesture. “I’m getting it.”

Timmy leans forward and his lips meet mine, and then his grin widens. “Yay,” he says, “I told you it would look good.”

Then we move to the streetwear store that specializes in shoes and hats, drawn in by the trendy, vibrant displays, and I see some sneakers I really like. They’re black and white with gold accents, and I love them. Because I had to shrink my life into a few suitcases and a cat carrier, I’m doing a bit of replenishment of my wardrobe. It’s a treat. And it’s a little retail therapy to distract myself from Sabre not being here. “These are perfect,” I murmur, slipping them off the shelf to inspect the size.

“Oh yeah,” nods Timmy. “Those are super cute. They’d look great on you.”

I try on the shoes, and while I find the right size with the help of a sales assistant, Timmy wanders around the store looking at hats. He tries on a couple of caps in front of a mirror, grinning at his reflection as he turns his head this way and that. He’s particularly enamored with one that says ‘Cock’ on it, alongside a picture of a rooster. I laugh and shake my head. Of course he would like that one the best.

I find the perfect size for the sneakers, and head toward the counter with the shoe box in hand. “These are a steal,” I say with a playful smile, feeling content as I tap my card on the reader.

The cashier hands me the bag with a friendly nod, and I glance over at Timmy, still playing with the hats. He pulls one low over his brow, smirking at himself in the mirror one last time before we stroll out of the store together.

We’re halfway across the indoor mall when something nags at the edge of my awareness. I glance at Timmy—and there it is, still perched on his head. The cock hat, bold and new, the price tag hanging off the back.

I stop in my tracks, my heart sinking. “Timmy…you didn’t pay for the hat.”

“Oh, oops!” he says, casually touching the bill as if he just noticed it, grinning lazily. “I had absolutely no idea I was wearing this. It’s meant to be, I guess. I’m meant to have this hat.”

My stomach twists. “You forgot ?”

I think back to the smoothie at the grocery store, the sunglasses and water bottle at the thrift store, the registration tags, and even the frying pan at the restaurant. This seems practiced, habitual, and I don’t like it at all.

He shrugs at me, giving that familiar, breezy smile that once felt genuine and charming, but is starting to feel more like a shield. “Yeah, it just slipped my mind.”

But I’m starting to know better. Knowing that behind Timmy’s seemingly casual actions is a calculated slyness, whether he’ll acknowledge it to himself or not.

“Timmy, come on,” I say softly, trying not to let too much frustration creep into my voice. “Please stop doing this. It’s not right.”

His expression shifts, his grin transforming into something much sharper. “What’s the big deal?” he asks, a hint of annoyance slipping into his tone. “It’s just a hat. Nobody even noticed. I didn’t even notice.”

I bite my lip, trying to keep calm. “It’s not about that. I just don’t want you to get in trouble. Or for us to get in trouble. And if you accidentally take something from a store, you need to take it back when you realize.”

His eyes narrow slightly, his easy charm dissolving into something colder. “Jesus, Margaux. You really think I did this on purpose?” he asks, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “I said I forgot. Why do you always have to make a thing out of nothing?”

I feel the familiar sting of guilt rise in my chest. The way he says it—like I’m being unreasonable, like I’m the one who’s the problem—makes me doubt myself for a moment. He has a way of making me feel like his actions are normal and I’m the outlier.

The knot in my stomach tightens.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, not because I think I’m wrong or that he deserves an apology from me, but because I don’t want this to spiral into another argument. I’m tired of the tension, tired of feeling like every objection I raise pulls us further apart. “I just… forget I said anything. But please, be careful that you don’t take anything else. It just makes me feel really uncomfortable, even if it was completely accidental. How silly would you feel if you got arrested and ended up in jail because you took a hat without paying for it?”

Timmy lets out a short breath, rolling his eyes. “Whatever,” he says, adjusting the hat on his head like it was always his to wear.

We keep walking, but the easy fun of the afternoon is gone, replaced with something much heavier, an uncomfortable silence stretching between us like a chasm.

I grip the bags with my sneakers and my hat—that I paid for—tightly, trying to convince myself that maybe I am really being uptight.

But deep down the unease remains, gnawing at me, whispering that something is off. And as Timmy continues to chat away lightly, discussing our next stop, as if nothing happened, I wonder how many more times I’ll have to bite my tongue just to keep the peace.