Episode One: Unwelcome Advances

He Said It Was a Compliment

The bar’s walls were papered in faded ski trail maps: relics from before the era of corporate buyouts, when ski towns had character and free parking. A neon sign buzzed Mile High or Die Trying above shelves of whiskey no one considered before midnight. The lighting was the kind of dim that made everyone look equally guilty. Or maybe that was just how online dating worked now. Everyone’s a risk until proven safe.

She spotted him before he saw her: perched at the far end of the bar, swiping through Solstice profiles with the mechanical precision of someone trying to beat a game. Left. Left. Right. Left. Left. Right.

Classy.

As he brought his drink to his lips, his leather jacket shifted slightly. It was the kind of jacket that looks soft, but only to the person wearing it. Like when someone hugs you in one: they feel warmth and comfort; you feel protective packaging. A giant pilot’s watch gleamed under the bar lights, its multiple dials screaming I am very important because I have places to be.

He didn’t stand when she approached. Just lifted his glass in a half-hearted toast, like acknowledging a mild inconvenience. “Katya?”

She nodded, pulling off her coat. “Yeah. Sorry. Time is a social construct I’m still working on.”

He didn’t smile, just gestured to the barstool beside him without comment. She sat.

~

The Profile (Six Weeks Earlier)

That Sunday night, her cursor hovered over Describe your ideal match like it was taunting her. Lindsay’s texts lit up the other side of the screen:

LINDSAY: Just say “emotionally available” and call it a day
KATYA: But that would be catfishing
LINDSAY: Then write “seeks man who knows what I want without asking” and prepare to die alone

She’d just come back solo from another coupled-up dinner party, where she’d smiled politely through wine, candlelight, and the inside jokes of people in love.

Looking for someone who reads the whole article, not just the headline. Must like dogs, or at least accept that they are the superior creature.

Too honest. Deleted.

Must know the difference between your and you’re. Dealbreaker.

Too combative. Deleted.

Eventually, she settled on sunny and vague. Sunshine and rainbows. Because the truth was simultaneously too much and not enough. She picked something breezy and algorithm-friendly and hit publish, while bracing for the wave of mediocrity to flow in.

~

Back at the bar, Paul-the-pilot was listing airport codes like he was fighting for sole custody. “Frankfurt last week, Osaka before that. São Paulo? The hotel gyms there are unreal.”

Katya nodded and took a slow bite of her grilled cheese. The cheese stretched perfectly. It was the kind of simple pleasure that suddenly felt obscene under his appraisal. One more minute and it would solidify just enough to dip into the tomato soup. She was still chasing the comforts of childhood, apparently.

“Comfort food,” he said, eyes on her. “You wouldn’t know it by looking at you.”

Her phone buzzed on the bar.

LINDSAY: Do you need limón?

~

Their code. Ever since the tequila tasting date where the guy leaned across the table, fresh lime dripping from his cuticles, and declared, “My love language? Rim salt and lime wedges,” just before asking if he could do a shot on her tits.

LINDSAY’S TEXT THAT NIGHT: Status report
KATYA: He wants to use my body as a dinner plate
LINDSAY: I’m chilling the wine in the freezer. How fast can you get here?

~

THE BREAKING POINT

Paul leaned in. “Confirm something for me.”

Katya’s spoon paused mid-air.

“I bet you’re a freak in bed.”

The air turned to glass.

She stood, left cash under her untouched soup, and walked out. Denver’s cold bit her cheeks as Paul called after her: “Fucking bitch!” A couple sharing a vape outside glanced over. Katya kept walking, her breath coming in sharp clouds. The insult didn’t sting. What unsettled her was the relief… how easy it was to leave.

~

THE HOOK

Later, curled on her bed, she typed:

Solstice: Ten dates.
If bleak by Date Ten, just give up.
Goal: connection.
Hypothesis: unlikely.
Plan B: soup, solitude, forty cats.

Her thumb hovered over Lindsay’s contact. The screen blurred for half a second. Not from tears but from exhaustion. The kind that comes from rehearsing a scene in your head a hundred times and still fucking it up.

KATYA: Limón.
LINDSAY: How bad?
KATYA: Asked about fucking before I even tasted the soup.
LINDSAY: Asshole. Come over tomorrow. We’re cleansing your karma with sage and sangria.

Katya stared at the ceiling. Somewhere out there was a guy who asked about her day before her underwear. She hadn’t met him yet. But she had sage, sangria, and Lindsay.

And maybe that was enough for now.

Tomorrow, she’d start again.
New date. New bar. New hypothesis.
Ten dates to find out.

TO BE CONTINUED...