OnHINGEd: Entry 4.3.

"Mom, please skip this one 🙏"

A couch is the centerpiece of any New York apartment. It sets the tone for the entire living space. No matter the size, the couch defines the vibe. I used to think mine was kind of ugly. It’s pretty boring, honestly—simple, grey, L-shaped, with hidden storage (a major plus). It doesn’t have much personality beyond a couple of blue and orange pillows from Amazon. We inherited it from 2B’s previous owner, and Rufus and I weren’t exactly in the market for something new. So we settled for the semi-broken one despite screws coming loose and water stains from Rufus and I sitting on it wrapped in wet towels. Rookie mistake.

However, the beautiful thing about our couch is that it’s a fold-out. Perfect for movie nights and out-of-town guests. When it’s fully extended, it seats four comfortably, legs stretched out. It’s cozy. And since we use a projector instead of a TV, it feels like our little cinema. The best part is that it doesn’t swallow up the whole living room, which is a small miracle in New York.

Regardless of the countless wine nights, deep talks, and stains, it didn’t feel like mine yet. It didn’t feel lived in.

It was the night of Date 3 with Dimples. Well, allegedly date 3. We had made loose plans a few days before to get a burger afterward. Yes, points to him for remembering my favorite spot (if I tell you now, I’d have to kill you), but negative points to him for always teetering on the edge of being direct but not asking me out.

Remember back on Entry 3, Date 3, I mentioned 2BD’s resident male consultant, Mamba? It was time to put his male perspective to use. He had the idea to prompt him with the “going solo” remark, which I loved, and forced him to be DIRECT.

I’m still at odds with his texting style. He tends to make these blanket statements in response to me that feel like they completely shut down the idea, leaving me wondering, "Why?" In this case, I think my sarcasm went right over his head, and when I read his response, I was ready to give up on him altogether. Like, no follow-up, no alternative? It felt like I was being forced to take the lead, and I did, because honestly, it’s not that hard.

I was now playing a game I knew all too well—Wheel of Fortune: Finance Bro Edition. Would Dimples be able to leave work before 9 p.m. on Friday for our date? I was betting on it.

I’m home, almost two glasses of wine in, getting ready and making loose plans should this plan blow up. I was back to my winning formula: asymmetrical TTLS, jeans, leather jacket, and boots.

Since my room is on the opposite side of the apartment from the bathroom, I keep walking past the couch, still unfolded from a recent watch party. Oddly, I’m not bothered to fold it back up. As I step into the shower, I catch myself shaving my legs, then moisturizing twice, mixing perfumes, and hiding my beloved stuffed hippo under my bed. Even my bra strap is intentionally left visible… did Future Me know something I didn’t? I trusted her instincts, and I'm glad I did. Spoiler alert: I didn’t come home alone that night.

C’mon B, were you really that surprised when these were the flirty ass messages you were sending him leading up to the date🙄.

It’s 10:30, and I’ve befriended a beautiful Italian bartender named Maria at a charming spot next to the burger restaurant. I love sitting at bars alone. We’re speaking conversational Italian, and she’s just as curious as I am about whether I’ll hear from Dimples any minute now. Sure enough, halfway through my glass of merlot, I get a call from him. “Mi scusi,” I say to Maria as I step outside.

It’s a new feeling hearing his voice over the phone, and I’m not mad about it.

“Are you there? I can leave right now, I just need 15 minutes.” My heart sinks—I know there’s no way we’ll make it to the restaurant in time, but at least he’s making an effort.

“You better get off the phone and start leaving,” I say, looking forward to another glass with Maria in the meantime.

Fifteen minutes later, Dimples texts that he’s arrived, and tragically follows up with a “wya” (gag). But at least he made it. I wasn’t about to be caught waiting for him, so I show up five minutes later, shaking my head when I see the “closed” sign lit up outside. We greet each other with a hug, and I remark that this burger mission was doomed from the start. He agrees, “100%,” and we pivot to a bar around the corner, both hoping the kitchen is still open. After sitting down, we’re notified that it’s closed too, great. But the place is cute, and we’re already debating if we can finesse at least a plate of olives.

The plate of “olives” in question:

No, literally, this is what they gave us. It was comical.

A series of events unfolded after the lonely olive saga, and two more glasses of wine were consumed—

Both of us were still starving, so we decided Five Guys wasn’t just a want, but a need.

Finally satisfied and full, Dimples challenges me to a game of pool. I accept. Lucky for me, the pool tables are packed, so we opt for ping pong instead. We agree to best out of three. He beats me by two points in the first match, but I’m just warming up. I take him down in the next two games, and the feeling is victorious. I’m the proudest lefty there is. He shakes his head in defeat and smiles at the floor as I cross over to his side to shake his hand. He handles the loss well, not making excuses or throwing a fit.

We keep walking around and end up at a jazz bar. No moves from him all night—maybe a light touch on the knee, but nothing crazy. This was a pattern, I guess. The band finishes up, and we get up to leave, naturally beginning to walk toward my place. We now stand under the heinous fluorescent lighting of my stoop. We haven’t even kissed, and now I’m going to make him work harder for it. I don’t let the silence get awkward before I fill it with my proposition.

“Okay, you can come up, but two things: you have to run lines with me, and you can’t spend the night.” It was 3 a.m., so there wasn’t much night left anyway.

I watch as he processes my words. “Run lines, huh?” he responds. “Well, I guess I can be an actor too.”

“Good,” I say, turning around to walk up and unlock my door. He follows closely behind.

I open the door to my apartment, and there we are—Dimples and I, in my living room. I show him around what there is to show: my neat kitchen, a cute little bathroom off to the side, and my bedroom—but that part is brief. I lead him back to the living room; we have lines to run. I switch on the projector for some background music and invite him to sit. He’s still taking in his surroundings, observing—he hasn’t even taken off his jacket yet. I grab my laptop, and he joins me on the folded-out couch, very spacious. Of course, there are no "lines to run." I discreetly pull up a script from a short film I did freshman year of college, between a male and female character, and so we begin. He’s not bad at all and takes it seriously, which I find extremely attractive. After two run-throughs, I’m content with his performance, and I shut my laptop, telling him I’m impressed.

He gets shy again, and now it’s my turn to shift the subject to something I’m unfamiliar with—finance.

“So,” I look at him, “you helped me run my lines, now you can teach me something about what you do. Pretend you’re interviewing me like one of your interns.”

He laughs. “What? You want me to ask you a finance question?”

“Yes,” I respond, “that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, genuinely unsure where to begin.

“Err... like a calculation question or what?”

“Anything,” I say. “I’m an expert bullshitter, remember?”

“Alright,” he says finally, “talk to me about the enterprise value calculation.”

I’m clueless, but that’s the point, right? To bullshit.

“That’s such a great question, REDACTED. You know, I was just thinking about this the other day. It’s not so much about the enterprise value calculation but more so the value of the enterprise…”

He is cracking up as I continue to spew bullshit as best I can, ignoring him, until he stops me and says,

“You know, if someone came in with your confidence despite the answer being wrong, I’ll admit, I’d be impressed.”

I laugh too. Mission accomplished.

The conversation takes a more somber turn when I ask if his parents are also in finance, and he tells me matter-of-factly that no, and that they’re divorced—a reality I can relate to, to some degree. He doesn’t offer much more, and I don’t pry, but it’s nice to speak openly about our parents like that. He asks if I went to therapy because of it, and I say yes, proudly imitating my Scottish therapist. He chuckles before adding that he doesn’t believe in therapy. Yeah, red flag, I know, but I don’t know many who do. I ask him why, and he says he doesn’t like the idea of giving one person the authority to tell you what to do. I reply that that’s not how I see it, “to me, it’s about an unbiased figure helping you recognize behaviors you may not acknowledge”. He tells me that’s a fair point, and like the Ping-Pong match, I take it as a major win.

We shift to a lighter topic—skiing. I tease, “You must snowboard. Very ‘finance bro’ of you—and very on brand.”

He smirks and fires back, “Oh yeah? Where’d you learn to ski, Valley Girl? Aspen?”

I laugh. “Never been to Aspen, and I’ve never done hot yoga either,” I say, finally bringing up the prompt on his profile that’s piqued my curiosity since the beginning.

“So, do you actually do hot yoga?” I ask. “You listed it as your ‘typical Sunday activity.’”

“I do,” he replies. “Why? Not on brand for me?”

He’s been shifting in his seat for the past ten minutes, and I can tell he’s looking for his moment, just like I was in that booth last week.

“Oh, yes, it’s very on brand. I bet I can guess where you do it, too?”

“Is that right?” he says, leaning in closer now, angling toward me. “Where would that be?”

“Where else do the finance bros go?” I grin. “Equinox.”

I reach for his arm, teasing him, and catch how defined his muscles do look beneath that crisp white t-shirt.

He doesn’t deny it. He’s just watching me—eyes dark, locked on mine, lips slightly parted like he wants to say something but can’t quite land on the words—

“I’m right, aren’t I? I—”

Suddenly, he’s kissing me.

It’s a hungry kiss—the kind that breaks after six hours of crackling tension, and barely-there touches and everything we’ve been holding back all night. I kiss him back with the same intensity, and then he’s pulling me on top of him. My legs wrap around his waist as we sink into the left end of the folded-out grey couch.

Okay, Mom, I was serious. PLEASE STOP HERE.

He’s in complete control. This is new to me. The shy, reserved guy who nervously stood on my steps earlier feels like a stranger now. His hands toy with the hem of my shirt before he pulls it up and over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside, bye-bye TTLS, with steady confidence before his hands find my waist again.

His lips find my neck, and I tilt my head instinctively. I can feel his breath against my skin as I shift slightly, pressing closer. One of his hands moves to cradle the back of my head while the other rests on my hip, anchoring me to him. Nothing tentative about him now—I’m completely entranced.

“This okay?” he whispers, voice low and rough in my ear, a gentle check-in that still sends a jolt through me.

I nod, and then—because nodding isn’t enough—I muster, “Yeah.” Keep going, Dimples.

I slide my hands under the edge of his shirt and take it off. His muscles tense slightly under my touch, and he leans back just enough to let me lift it over his head. I trail my hands down his chest, then up again, grasping his muscular arms

“So I have Equinox to thank for this?” I murmur with a teasing smile.

He chuckles, low and a little breathless. “Shut up.”

And just like that, he pulls me back in, mouth on mine again, hungrier than before. Then, he’s lifting us off the couch, in one swift motion, arms wrapping around me as we stand, before gently placing me down so we are standing face to face. I can’t help but stare for a beat, his toned body—shirtless now, in just his jeans, he looks like he stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad and into my living room.

His hand reaches for the buttons of my jeans, effortlessly lifting me back up again as they fall. Now we’re back where we started, me straddling him, arms around his neck. I’m following his lead, one hand at the small of my back, holding me steady in his lap, while the other glides downward, slipping beneath my panties with a kind of quiet confidence that sends a shiver down my spine. WTFF is going on?

My breath stutters as his fingers brush over me, I tilt my hips forward pressing closer, and his lips find mine again, more urgent. His fingers move slowly at first, circling, teasing… guess I’m like a fucking wattpad writer now holy shiiit.

He murmurs something dirty right against my ear, his voice low and husky, and I’m completely losing it. Who is this divaaa? Is this really the same guy who couldn’t kiss me until the second date??

He’s moved me onto my back, and I lie comfortably on the couch, the room bathed in the soft blue glow of the projector. He’s on his knees, and I’m on the edge of a cliff. I don’t know how long I’m there, time is warped, my recollection consists of snapshots, lips, heat, the hum of the projector, his hand around my neck, my hands in his hair.

After however long we sit on the couch, breathless, I trace circles on his chest. My phone buzzes, so I decide to check the time and put some clothes on. I reach over him for the jacket I complimented earlier in the night, slip it on, and strike an exaggerated pose from my seat. He laughs.

I check the time and turn my phone to show him—it’s 6 a.m.

“So, you don’t want me to spend the night, huh?”

I playfully shove him. “Time to go,” I say.

He gets up, and realizing I’m still wearing his coat, I say, “You’re probably going to need this back.” I drop it to the floor and go put on my robe. I return to meet him at the door. He kisses me goodbye, and I shut the door behind him. I turned around to assess the damage, and there it was: that dinky, grey hand-me-down couch that suddenly didn’t feel so foreign to me anymore. A couch christening? Welcome to NYC, officially 2BD.

Later that night, I was God’s strongest soldier when Dimples texts me at midnight asking if I’m out. I don’t respond until Sunday morning. My responses are absolutely feral, I know, but he created a monster.

The next date with Dimples? Well, looks like that’s 2B Determined.

:)