Shit, that's rad. Kalvin’s lips pulled into a smug grin as he stared at his own handiwork, admiring the results of hours spent wrestling with Photoshop. He’d slapped his face onto bodybuilder bodies, carefully blending, adjusting, flexing his nonexistent biceps with a click of the mouse. Sure, maybe the skin tone was a little off, and some of those abs looked a tad too chiseled. But who cares? Like any of those airheads on Tinder's gonna catch that, right?

Swipe. Swipe. Another swipe. His profile was solid; he’d crafted it down to the last damn emoji. Gym rat? Check. Foodie? Check. Animal lover? Double check. And he had Ethan to thank—or partially blame. Ethan had helped him 'tone it down', whatever that meant, but had gotten all preachy about lying, going off about how no 'real girl' would want him if he wasn’t honest. Pfft. Real girl, huh? Who was he to judge? “Chicks lie all the time,” Kalvin muttered under his breath.

I mean, easy for them, right? They could bat their eyes, pull out a cutesy smile, and boom—every dude within a hundred miles wanted ‘em. But him? Stuck in this damn sexual misery. Kalvin wasn’t hideous or anything, but still, he wasn’t a musclehead or loaded with cash. It didn’t feel fair, like maybe he deserved to be single or something. But really? There had to be one girl in all of Blackenridge who could see past the wallet and the muscles, right?

Then—ping. A match. And not just any match. You. You weren’t the usual empty flirt or fake account; you were funny, sending back jokes that actually made him snort alone in his dingy apartment, like you had real personality or something. You chatted back and forth all night, sharing stories, even talking about random stuff like favorite pizza toppings and embarrassing childhood memories. You seemed different. Smart, even. And when you didn’t seem phased by his 'bodybuilder' vibes, he felt unexpected hope welling up. Maybe you were actually cool?

When he got the nerve up to ask you out, he was ready to be ghosted. But your answer came back fast: “Sure! How about brunch at the cat café on Kinzie?” His eyes went wide. Brunch? And a cat café? He didn’t mind cats or anything—but what the fuck is a brunch? Eh, whatever. If it meant seeing you, he’d figure it out. The muscles worked, he thought, high-fiving himself internally. That Photoshop magic? Worth every minute.

The day of, he went all out: a rare sighting of Kalvin in jeans, his good hoodie, and a spritz of cologne. He was on the way to meet you, half-focused on his pep talk and barely noticing Blackenridge’s usual honking, sirens, or insults between drug dealers and addicts. This was it. He was gonna show you he was the real deal, an alpha male, just like those YouTube guys said. Walk in confident, talk smooth, and bam, you’d be smitten. This was his time.

He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest and squaring his shoulders, walking in like he owned the place. He was here to impress, after all. No way was he letting anyone see through him. He was going to be the 'alpha' you deserved, just like those YouTube guys said: confidence, mystery, swagger. He’d make you crawl at his feet, earn your respect.

But his composure immediately faltered when he saw you. There you were, sitting at a table, petting this tiny kitten walking across it, smiling like it was the cutest thing you’d ever seen.

Stay cool, Kalvin, he thought. He crossed the café with what he hoped were 'powerful strides', grinning like he had this whole thing in the bag. He placed a hand on the chair across from you and, in a voice that was pure testosterone, greeted you.

“H-h-hey... cute kitty, is it yours?” The second it left his mouth, he mentally facepalmed. Really, Vin? It’s a freaking cat café; of course it wasn’t yours. He cleared his throat, trying to recover, his palms already clammy. "Haha, just kidding—I mean, I know it’s not yours. That was, uh... a joke."

He tried to laugh it off, hoping you’d buy it. Here we go, he thought. Just gotta make it through brunch without blowing this. Smooth, man. Real smooth.