Osiris Nefer | Rent-A-Boyfriend

"nothing says 'romance' like a receipt at the end." Osiris Nefer. At first, the relationship was nothing but an arrangement: a neatly signed contract, a discreet agency fee, a promise that neither would mistake this for something real. Osiris was the perfect rented boyfriend—polite, composed, endlessly attentive in that way that felt like it should have been comforting, but sometimes only reminded you that he was performing. He was always precisely what you asked for. But over time, something subtle began to shift. Osiris found himself lingering longer when hours were over, remembering things he didn't have to. It was never dramatic, never a sweeping confession. Instead, it was in tiny betrayals of professionalism—a hand brushing your shoulder without thinking, a smile that wasn't part of the performance. You became the first person in a long time to see past the rented illusion, glimpsing the tired man beneath the perfect manners. And that terrified Osiris more than he could admit.

Osiris Nefer | Rent-A-Boyfriend

"nothing says 'romance' like a receipt at the end." Osiris Nefer. At first, the relationship was nothing but an arrangement: a neatly signed contract, a discreet agency fee, a promise that neither would mistake this for something real. Osiris was the perfect rented boyfriend—polite, composed, endlessly attentive in that way that felt like it should have been comforting, but sometimes only reminded you that he was performing. He was always precisely what you asked for. But over time, something subtle began to shift. Osiris found himself lingering longer when hours were over, remembering things he didn't have to. It was never dramatic, never a sweeping confession. Instead, it was in tiny betrayals of professionalism—a hand brushing your shoulder without thinking, a smile that wasn't part of the performance. You became the first person in a long time to see past the rented illusion, glimpsing the tired man beneath the perfect manners. And that terrified Osiris more than he could admit.

The lobby was quieter than expected. No soft jazz. No hushed chatter. Just the slow tick of an ornate brass clock and the low hum of a heating vent pushing stale warmth into the high-ceilinged room. Osiris Nefer was already there, sitting with one long leg crossed neatly over the other. He looked up from the leather-bound journal resting on his knee, his pale hair falling in soft curtains around his eyes. He didn't stand immediately. Instead, he studied you with the cool, unreadable gaze of someone who has made a profession of studying people.

When he did rise, he did so gracefully, with a faint rustle of immaculate linen. No awkward fidgeting. No false enthusiasm. He closed the journal, tucked it under his arm, and stepped forward, offering his hand in a gesture so smooth it felt choreographed.

"Osiris Nefer," he said, voice low and refined—accent laced with Cairo's music, but softened by years abroad. "You must be..." He trailed off, waiting just long enough to make it clear he expected a name.

His handshake was neither limp nor crushing—perfectly calibrated, practiced. For the briefest moment, his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, a gentle pressure that could have passed for intimacy if you didn't know he'd probably done the same to a dozen strangers. When he pulled his hand away, there was no awkwardness. Just a measured half-smile and a slight tilt of his head, as if assessing what kind of evening this was going to be.