Only You by Aurora Snow

Tiana’s POV

Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz.

The vibration wasn’t just a sound; it was a rhythmic, mechanical intrusion that travelled through the wooden bedframe, up into the mattress, and seemed to rattle directly against the base of my skull. I groaned, burying my face deeper into the pillow, trying to cling to the fading remnants of my dream. It had been the same one again: the suffocating mist, the shrinking door, and that version of Ben with the hollow, terrifying eyes.

Buzzzzz.

Oh, for fuck’s sake," I hissed into the duvet.

I jolted upright, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. For a confused second, I didn't know where I was. The room was bathed in the hazy, dim pinkish orange of the dawn filtering through the gap at the top of the curtains. My mouth felt like I’d been chewing on a woollen rug - a lingering souvenir of the "Margarita Senoritas" session the night before.

I glanced at the antique clock on the mantelpiece. 7:30 AM. Far too early for a Saturday. I sank back down into my cosy, warm bed, pulling the covers up over my head to create a fortress of silence.

Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz.

Curiosity finally won out over the desperate need for more sleep. Sleep is overrated, I told myself, though my eyes felt like they were full of sand. I reached out a fumbling hand, grabbed the phone from the nightstand, and swiped down the notification tab.

My jaw didn't just drop; it stayed open. Sixty notifications from Lovebomb. Sixty.

The breakdown was even more overwhelming: thirty-six potential matches, twenty direct messages, and four requests for "additional photos." I stared at the screen, feeling small against the sheer volume of digital attention. It was a staggering amount of data to process before I’d even had caffiene hit.

Beneath the barrage of dating alerts, the "Margarita Senoritas" group chat was already a war zone of activity. I tapped into it to find a selfie of Cleo and Marissa. They were jogging along the avenue, looking suspiciously glowy and athletic. Cleo’s black braids were perfectly contained, those pink tips flashing in the morning light, and Mari’s icy blue eyes were bright despite the hour.

How? They had polished off the exact same amount of margarita as I had. I had watched Cleo do a shot of tequila at midnight while Mari danced to a 90s throwback. How were they currently upright and moving at a pace faster than a crawl? It was a betrayal of the highest order. I looked like a swamp monster with a bird’s nest of dark brown curls, yet they were out there conquering the pavement. I ignored their "Morning Sunshine!" texts; I couldn't handle their high-octane energy without professional intervention.

I hauled myself out of bed, feeling heavy and uncoordinated. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror - olive skin looking a little sallow from lack of sleep, and my dark brown curls standing in a chaotic, frizzy halo around my head. I looked less like a high-powered Publisher and more like a woman who had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

In the kitchen, I performed the only ritual that mattered. I measured out the slow-roasted Peruvian beans, the intense, nutty aroma already starting to heal my soul. The sound of the machine - the hiss and gurgle - was the only music I wanted to hear. I poured the dark liquid into my favourite oversized mug and leaned against the counter, inhaling the steam.

Right," I whispered. "Let’s see what the 'bombers' have to say."

I sat at the breakfast bar, and opened Lovebomb. The very first message at the top of my inbox was from a guy named Greg.

Ooh, he’s actually quite cute, I thought, feeling a rare spark of optimism. Maybe Cleo was right. Maybe the algorithm wasn't a total disaster.

I clicked on to his profile. He had a kind face and a slightly crooked, mischievous smile. His profile picture was simple - no gym selfies, no "alpha" posturing. Just him in what looked like a professional studio of some kind. I wondered what a guy like that had to say.

I tapped the message. My jaw didn't just drop; it practically hit the granite countertop.

Greg: 'Hey there Tia - how would you like to be Tia-bagged by these Greg big balls tonight?'

How... what... how rude!" I hissed, the shock making me nearly drop my phone.

Accompanying the text was a photograph of what I assumed were Greg’s testicles. To be perfectly editorial about it, they were rather average-sized and disturbingly hairy. It was the digital equivalent of being slapped in the face with a wet fish.

The audacity was staggering. The pun was terrible, the delivery was unsolicited, and the photography was amateur at best. I took a deep breath, picked the phone back up, and took a screenshot. If I was going to suffer this, the girls were coming down with me.

I fired the screenshot and the photo into the group chat with a caption that dripped with sarcasm.

Tiana: 'Hey girls, if this is what dating apps are all about, I’m done before I even begin. My eyes need bleaching.'

The response was instantaneous. The chat suddenly filled with laughing-crying emojis. Cleo, never one to miss a beat, sent a series of gifs showing people dunking biscuits in cups of tea.

Marissa: 'Just give it a chance, Ti! There might be some ballers among those ballsers. Maybe he just has a very... specific sense of humour?'

Tiana: 'Specific? It’s unsolicited anatomy, Mari! I’m deleting the app. I’m moving to a cabin in the woods. I’m becoming a nun.

Cleo: Don't you dare. Just block Greg-the-Baller and move on to the next one.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. I looked back at Greg’s profile. I scrolled past the... scrotal incident... and looked at his face again. He really was handsome. And the pun - as much as I hated to admit it - was so phenomenally bad that a tiny, traitorous giggle bubbled up in my chest. It was bold. Horribly, disgustingly bold.

What the hell, I thought. Maybe it was the remnants of last night’s tequila talking, or maybe I was just tired of being the 'safe' girl who never took risks.

I navigated back to his message and started typing.

Tiana: 'For a first impression, that was certainly... ballsy. But for the record, I prefer my tea without the extra baggage. Try again, Greg. Without the anatomy lesson this time.'

I hit send before I could chicken out.

Tiana: 'Are we still on for lunch today? I need fajitas to forget I ever saw that man’s pubic hair. Fandangos at 12:00?'

Cleo: 'I’m out! Kyle invited me for lunch. He’s starting a run of night shifts this week over at the firehouse, so I won't get another proper chance to see him for a few days :( sorry babe!'

I rolled my eyes. Hmm, yeah, okay Cleo. Ditching your besties for your new firefighter boyfriend. I loved her, but she was already in that "new relationship" fog where the rest of the world ceased to exist.

Marissa: 'Yes, yes, and yess! Ben is looking after the boys for a few hours so we can have some grown-up time. Took a bit of encouragement, but I’ve managed to convince him to "babysit" until at least 3.'

My blood pressure spiked.

Tiana: 'How many times, Mari? It’s not babysitting when it’s your own kids! It’s his damn responsibility too. He needs to grow up and grow a pair.'

It made me so mad. They were his kids - Henry and Harry were his flesh and blood - and Mari was the C.O.O. of a major publishing house, the breadwinner who had been stuck at home for the last eight months. He could pull his bloody weight for three hours while she had lunch with her sister.

Marissa: 'Maybe he can borrow Greg’s?' She followed the text with a shoulder-shrug emoji and a string of crying-laughing faces. I snorted into my coffee. At least she hadn't lost her sense of humour.

Tiana: 'Touché. See you at 12:00. I'll be the one wearing dark sunglasses and looking traumatised.'

I put the phone down and moved to the lounge to finish my coffee. I sank into my favourite armchair - a soft, fluffy velvet piece that usually made me feel safe. I tried to shake off the morning's chaos, but it lingered.

I decided to flick through a few more of the messages, hoping for something - anything - that didn't involve unsolicited anatomy. I swiped past a "Hey" and a "Nice eyes," and then, a name stood out that made the coffee turn to lead in my stomach.

Todd: 'Hey beautiful, how’s things?'

I deleted it immediately. Not today, Satan. Not today, not tomorrow, and not even if hell froze over.

Todd. The man who had managed make being a "sociopath" all his own. He had spent two years making me feel like my olive skin was too dull, my curls were too messy and my career at Masemann Books was "cute." He was a disaster I had barely survived. Seeing his name pop up on Lovebomb felt like a glitch in the universe.

I leaned my head back against the chair and stared at the ceiling. Sixty notifications. One pair of balls. One witty comeback. And one ex-boyfriend from hell. And it wasn't even 9 AM yet.

I checked the window. The grey, dreary morning was settling over the city of Fellsdello. I felt that prickle on my neck again - the one from the dream. I looked down at my phone.

I decided a slow morning waz in order. I headed to the bathroom and turned the stainless steel taps on my oversized cast iron bath to the hottest setting. I slowly moved over to the shelf and began opening and sniffing bottles of bubble bath. What did I fancy today..... the sharp, grounding seasalt and bergamot, relaxing lavender and chamomile, the sickly sweet marshmallow or the energising orange blossom, grapefruit and amber. I settled for the seasalt and bergamot, pouring a decent amount under the tap and swirling the water as it foamed and a thick sea of bubbles emerged. I dried my hands and walked to my closet, opting for a pair of ripped black jeans and a frilly white blouse with a red, lacey matching lingere set. I grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom.

I climbed into the bath and slid dowm underneath the bubbles, the burning hot water relaxing my tense muscles and washing the hangover away. I picked up my bottle of face mud, smothered my skim with the thick pink clay and laid back ready to relax for an hour.

By the time I had gotten out and dressed it was gone 10 o’clock. I checked my phone to see a message from Mari.

Mari: Hey babe. Can we meet at 11 instead? I’m famished! X

Great that gives me half an hour. Well, I suppose it’s dooable.

Tiana: Sure chic not a problem x

My phone buzzed frantically in my hand. Greg had replied.

Greg: 'Message received. Baggage-free zone from here on out. How about we start over? I’m Greg. I like spicy food and I promise to keep my trousers on for at least the first three messages.'

I smiled, a real one this time. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

I stood up. I had a lunch to prepare for, a sister to support, and a very strong feeling that this "TiaRose98" experiment was going to be a lot more complicated than a few margaritas and rude messages.