REBUILT: BOOK 1 OF THE REBUILT SERIES

Dating apps are bullshit.

That’s what i tell myself every time i download one, scroll for five minutes, then delete it in disgust. My phone ends up feeling greasy, like i’ve just rubbed it against a frat house couch.

Most profiles are the same: shirtless bathroom mirror selfies. Duck-face gym rats flexing in front of dumbbells. Forty-year-olds still holding dead fish like it’s a personality trait.

Pass. Pass. Big pass.

But tonight, my boys are asleep, the house is quiet, and my brain won’t stop spiraling. So i scroll. Half out of boredom. Half out of curiosity. Mostly because a tiny, reckless part of me wants to know if maybe—just maybe— love isn’t as dead as i decided it was.

And then i see him.

Tall. Like, giant tall. Red hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders that look like they’ve carried actual trees. His smile is crooked, a little shy, like he’s not used to taking selfies. Which means one thing: he didn’t try too hard. And God, is that a relief.

The caption under his picture says: “Six-five, can reach the top shelf. Terrible dancer. Excellent at eating snacks in bed.”

I swipe right. It’s impulsive, it’s reckless, and i fully expect it to go nowhere.

Then my screen lights up: It’s a match.

Shit.

A second later, a message pops up.

Mike: Do i get bonus points if i share snacks?

I stare at the message like it’s a trap. Guys on apps don’t usually lead with “snacks.” They lead with dick picks or bad jokes about wanting a “Netflix and chill buddy.”

But this one? This one made me laugh out loud. Like actual, stupid, hand-over-mouth laughter that i haven’t heard from myself in…God, years.

My thumb move before my brain can stop it.

Me: Depends. We talking Doritos, or like… the fancy stuff?

Three dots. He’s typing. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t even still be here. This was supposed to be a doom scroll, not a conversation.

Mike: Fancy. Always fancy. I’m talking double-stuffed oreos, imported chocolate, maybe even cheese that comes in a block, not a spray can.

I giggle. Out loud. Again. I actually have to cover my mouth, like my kids are ging to come marching down the hall demanding to know what’s so funny.

And something dangerous happens: i want to keep talking to him.

Me: So basically, you’re a sugar daddy. With actual sugar.

Mike: Only if you want me to be. I’m six-five, remember? I can reach the top shelf. That’s gotta be worth something.

I bite my lip. He’s cocky but not gross. Flirty, but not the type that makes me want to bleach my phone after reading. This feels…human. Normal.

Which makes it scary as hell.

I should stop. But i don’t.

Me: Okay, top shelf guy. What’s your worst habit?

Mike: …I dance in the kitchen when i cook. Badly. Like, “should be arrested for indecent movement” badly.

Me: Pics or it didn’t happen.

Mike: You asked for it.

A second later, a video comes through. I freeze, half convinced it’s going to be a dick pick after all. But no—It’s him. Giant, broad-shouldered, red-haired Mike, in a gray t-shirt, standing in a kitchen that looks way too clean, wiggling his hips while holding a frying pan.

It’s ridiculous. It’s adorable. It’s…hot.

“Oh, fuck,” i whisper, clutching my pillow like it’s a life raft.

I should be embarrassed for laughing so hard my eyes water. I should be annoyed that a stranger has this much power over my mood. But instead, i’m grinning at my phone like a lovesick teenager.

Me: You’re terrible. You know that, right?

Mike: Absolutely. Your turn.

Me: My turn what?

Mike: Worst habit. No cheating.

I stare at the screen. Worst habit? Easy. I could list ten. Trusting the wrong people. Staying silent when i should have screamed. Believing love was a lie.

But none of those are first-date material.

So i typed the truth, wrapped in humor.

Me: I hide snacks from my kids. Like, aggressively. We’re talking chocolate bars taped under the sink kind of level.

Mike: Genius. Evil. Sexy.

Sexy. My stomach flips.

I almost put my phone down, like the word buurned me. But i don’t. I keep reading, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Mike: So when do i get to see if you’ll share them with me?

My chest tightens. He’s asking me out. Already. Too soon.

My pulse races. I should say no. I should block him. I should slam the app shut and throw myy phone across the room.

But instead, my thumbs type something else entirely:

Me: Let’s see if you can keep me laughing first.

Three dots. Then:

Mike: Challenge accepted.

And just like that, i’m lying in bed at midnight, my cheeks aching from smiling, my stomach buzzing with nerves, my entire body humming like maybe—just maybe— i want more.

For the first itme in forever, i feel awake.