My Perfect Boyfriend Was a Simulation I Bought

Aethelburg was a city built to make you feel small. Towers of chrome and glass scraped a sky bruised purple with neon advertisements, their reflections shimmering on the rain-slicked sky-lanes where silent vehicles streamed past like schools of metallic fish. I’d come here for inspiration, hoping the frantic, futuristic energy would jolt something loose in my art, but after three days, all I felt was anonymous and overwhelmed. The city was a masterpiece of human achievement, and I was just a girl with a blank sketchbook and a growing sense of dread.

I needed to escape the noise, the sheer scale of it all. Ducking into a side street, I found a place called “The Silent Leaf,” a teahouse whose minimalist design promised quiet. Inside, there were no staff, only sleek automated arms that glided from a central dispensary to the polished white tables. I sank into a plush chair in a secluded corner, grateful for the silence. A holographic menu shimmered to life on the table’s surface, offering hundreds of infusions, distillations, and varietals. My usual order was needlessly complex, a comfort habit I’d developed back home. I scrolled through the options, my finger hovering over the custom blend panel.

“White peony with a touch of lavender and a single drop of bergamot oil.”

The voice was low and smooth, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked up. A man was sitting at the table adjacent to mine, which I was sure had been empty a moment ago. He was handsome in a clean, classic way—dark hair, a strong jaw, and eyes the color of warm whiskey. But it was the way he was looking at me that made my breath catch. His focus was absolute, as if the entire gleaming, automated world around us had simply ceased to exist.

“I’m sorry?” I said, my voice a little unsteady.

A slow smile touched his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Your tea order. That’s what you were about to choose, wasn’t it?”

I stared at him, my mind racing. It was exactly right. Down to the single drop of bergamot I always insisted on. “How could you possibly know that?”

He leaned forward slightly, his posture relaxed but his attention unwavering. “I have a knack for observing details,” he said, his voice a confidential murmur. “You carry a sketchbook, but your fingers aren't smudged with charcoal or graphite. You’re a painter. The faint scent of lavender on your scarf. The way your eyes lingered on the white teas but dismissed the darker oolongs. And the bergamot… well, that was just a guess. You look like someone who appreciates a classic with a subtle, unexpected twist.” His gaze held mine, and for the first time since I’d arrived in this sprawling, indifferent city, I felt seen. Utterly and completely seen.

I was speechless, a flush of heat creeping up my neck. It wasn’t just that he was right; it was the unnerving accuracy of it, the way his observation felt like an intimate intrusion. “I… that’s impressive.”

“I’m Cian,” he said, extending a hand across the small space between our tables. His palm was warm and dry against mine, his grip firm but gentle. The contact lasted only a second, but a current traveled up my arm. “And you seem a little lost in this city.” His gaze dropped to my sketchbook again. “Or maybe just uninspired.”

His directness should have been off-putting, but instead, it felt like a relief. He wasn’t bothering with small talk. He was seeing the truth of my situation. “Both,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

“The tourist maps will only show you the monuments,” Cian said, leaning back in his chair. “They don’t show you the city’s heart. Let me be your guide. I can show you a side of Aethelburg that isn’t made of chrome and advertisements.”

Every sensible part of my brain screamed no. Don’t go anywhere with a handsome stranger who seems to read minds in a city you don’t know. But my heart, which had felt like a lead weight in my chest for days, gave a hopeful flutter. I looked into his whiskey-colored eyes, saw the genuine interest there, and found myself nodding. “Okay.”

He led me not to a sky-lane taxi, but to a discreet service elevator hidden behind a waterfall installation in a corporate lobby. It ascended silently, opening onto a rooftop I never would have found on my own. It was a pocket of impossible green in the steel canyon of the city. Wisteria vines clung to trellises, and beds of soft moss grew between paving stones. The roar of the city below was a distant hum.

We sat on a simple stone bench overlooking the chasm between buildings, the neon veins of Aethelburg pulsing far below. He didn't push for conversation, just let me take it all in. When I finally spoke, the words came easily. I told him about my art, the frustrating blankness I felt when I faced a canvas, the pressure to create something meaningful while feeling hollowed out.

He listened with an intensity that was almost unnerving. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer easy platitudes. When I trailed off, he asked, “What did you feel when you used to paint? Before this feeling of pressure began?”

The question was so simple, yet no one had ever asked it. “Freedom, I guess. Like I was translating something only I could see.”

“And what do you see now, when you look at the city?” His knee was only an inch from mine, and I was acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him. I could feel a low hum of energy in my own body, a pleasant thrumming deep in my stomach.

“I just see the scale,” I confessed. “It’s too big. I can’t find a focal point.”

“Maybe you’re looking for a single image,” he suggested, his voice low and thoughtful. “When what you really need to capture is a feeling. Like the feeling of finding a quiet place in the middle of all this noise.” His eyes held mine, and the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of us on that bench. The initial spark of attraction was burning into something deeper, a comfortable and thrilling rapport that felt less like chance and more like destiny.

We stayed on that rooftop until the sky began to bleed from purple into a deep, velvety indigo and the first stars pricked the space between the glowing towers. The walk back to my hotel was slow, unhurried. Cian walked close beside me, his shoulder occasionally brushing against mine, sending a jolt of warmth through my jacket. The conversation never faltered, weaving from art to astronomy, from the taste of street-vendor noodles to the feeling of being truly alone in a crowd. It felt like I had known him for years, not hours. Every word he spoke seemed to unlock a part of me I’d kept hidden away.

When we reached the grand, sterile entrance of my hotel, a silence fell between us. It wasn’t awkward, but heavy with everything that had been building since he’d first spoken my tea order. I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted to stay out here in the electric night with him, to keep this feeling going for as long as possible.

“I had a really good time today, Cian,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.

He turned to face me fully, his body blocking the automated swoosh of the hotel doors. “The day isn’t quite over,” he said, his gaze lifting past my head. He pointed up, toward a gap between two colossal skyscrapers where a handful of stars were visible against the city's glow. “You see those three stars in a row, with the brighter one just below?”

I followed his finger, my eyes adjusting to the dark. “Yes.”

“That’s Cassiopeia’s Throne. My favorite.” His eyes came back down to mine, and they were dark and intense in the dim light. “The view is compromised here. I’ll have to show you a better one soon.”

The promise hung in the air, a tangible thing. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, hopeful rhythm. He took a step closer, closing the small space that remained between us. The clean, subtle scent of him—something like sandalwood and cool night air—filled my senses. His hand came up, not to touch my face, but to gently push a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers grazed the sensitive skin of my neck, and a shudder went through me.

“Lacey,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to resonate deep in my chest.

And then he was kissing me. His other hand settled on my waist, firm and sure, pulling me flush against him. It wasn't a tentative first kiss; it was a kiss of absolute certainty. His lips were soft but demanding, moving against mine with a slow, deliberate pressure that made my knees weak. I opened my mouth for him with a soft sigh, my hands coming up to grip his arms. His tongue met mine, a slick, hot exploration that was both deeply intimate and incredibly skilled. A low thrum of arousal started deep in my belly, spreading through my limbs like liquid heat. I could feel the hard planes of his chest against my own, the solid strength of him. I arched into him, wanting more, wanting to erase any space left between us. He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding from my waist up my back, pressing me even closer until I could feel the proof of his desire hard against my stomach.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing heavily. His forehead rested against mine, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. “Tomorrow?” he asked, his voice thick.

All I could do was nod, my mind a dizzying swirl of sensation and emotion. He gave me one last, soft kiss before stepping back, his eyes promising more. I watched him walk away, his figure disappearing into the vibrant Aethelburg night, and a feeling bloomed in my chest—a bright, dangerous, intoxicating hope that I thought I had lost for good.