Jordan pocketed his phone and headed for the door, a new thought forming in the back of his mind. He’d been treating the Cashback System as a survival mechanism, a way to avoid going broke while learning to be a functional human. But at seventy-eight percent chemistry with Chloe and fifty-four percent return rates, the math suggested something else entirely.

He could scale this.

Not in a manipulative way, not the gross transactional approach that had defined Old Jordan’s pathetic attempts at romance. But in a strategic way. If spending small amounts on someone who genuinely liked him generated consistent profit, then thoughtful gifts and meaningful experiences could generate even more.

The Cashback System wasn’t just keeping him afloat.

It was building him an empire.

Jordan filed that thought away for later and knocked on Unit 403.

The door swung open to reveal Chloe in an oversized white t-shirt that fell to mid-thigh, her blue-streaked hair pulled into a messy bun and her face bare of makeup. Natural Chloe. The version only he got to see.

"You’re early," she said.

"You said twenty minutes."

"I said twenty minutes ten minutes ago."

"So I’m early by ten minutes."

"Which means you were ready before I texted." Her eyes narrowed. "How long have you been up?"

Jordan considered lying. Then he remembered Chloe’s ability to detect bullshit with the precision of a supernatural bloodhound.

"Since six-forty-seven."

"Nervous?"

"Absolutely not."

"Liar."

"I prefer ’strategically optimistic.’"

Chloe stepped aside to let him in, and Jordan entered the apartment that had become as familiar as his own over the past weeks. The main level was immaculate, every surface Instagram-ready, the faux fiddle-leaf fig standing sentinel in its corner. The kitchen counter held evidence of meal prep in progress, containers of rice and marinated chicken arranged with military precision.

"You’re cooking?" Jordan asked.

"My mother’s cooking. I’m preparing ingredients so she doesn’t have to start from scratch when she arrives." Chloe moved to the kitchen island, where a cutting board and knife waited. "Sit. We need to discuss the plan."

Jordan took a seat at the counter, watching as Chloe began slicing scallions with practiced efficiency. Her hands moved in quick, confident motions, the knife making soft tapping sounds against the wooden board.

"Daniel arrives at three," she said without looking up. "He’ll want to play games. You’re going to let him win."

"I haven’t played anything in a month."

"Then losing should be easy." Slice. Slice. Slice. "My mother arrives at five-thirty. We’ll help her finish cooking. Dinner at seven. She leaves by nine because she has a long drive and an early shift tomorrow."

"And during all of this, I’m supposed to be..."

"Normal." Chloe glanced up, her dark eyes assessing. "Not too eager. Not too casual. Not too rich. Not too poor. Just a nice boy from a decent family who treats her daughter well and has a plan for his future."

"So I should avoid mentioning the supernatural phone app tracking our relationship metrics."

"That would be ideal, yes."

Jordan watched her work, the rhythm of the knife against the cutting board almost hypnotic. There was something domestic about this moment that caught him off guard, a glimpse of a life that existed outside the chaos of OnlyFans empires and boxing training and ex-girlfriends running manipulation campaigns.

Just two people preparing food in a kitchen on a Saturday afternoon.

"You’re staring," Chloe said.

"You’re pretty."

The knife paused mid-slice. Chloe’s cheeks flushed pink, a reaction she immediately tried to suppress by resuming her work at double speed.

"Don’t do that in front of my mother."

"Don’t compliment you?"

"Don’t say things that make me..." She trailed off, clearly unwilling to finish the sentence.

"Make you what?"

"Shut up."

Jordan grinned. Getting Chloe flustered was one of his few consistent victories, and he treasured each one.

"What does Daniel like?" he asked, redirecting before she decided to stab him with the knife.

"Video games. Specifically fighting games and anything with competitive ranked modes." She swept the scallions into a bowl and started on a new pile of garlic. "He’s in high school, so he has opinions about everything and expertise in nothing. Don’t argue with him. Just nod and ask questions."

"I can do that."

"He’s protective of me, in the way younger siblings are. He’ll be watching to see if you’re good enough for his sister, which is absurd because he’s fifteen and his primary qualification is knowing which Valorant agent has the highest pick rate." A pause. "But I love him, so be nice."

Jordan heard the softness beneath the words. For all her calculating precision and strategic thinking, Chloe’s family remained the one thing she couldn’t reduce to percentages and profit margins. They were real to her in a way that her OnlyFans subscribers and Instagram followers would never be.

"I’ll be nice," he said.

"And don’t let him beat you too easily. He’ll know if you’re throwing."

"I thought I was supposed to let him win."

"Let him win while making it look like you’re trying." Chloe’s mouth twitched. "It’s called being a good boyfriend."

"I thought I was supposed to be a normal boyfriend."

"Normal boyfriends are good at letting younger siblings win without it being obvious."

Jordan considered this. The last time he’d played anything competitive was before Christmas, back when his primary hobby was League of Legends at Bronze rank while blaming his teammates for every loss. His skills had atrophied along with his self-respect.

Letting Daniel win might not require much acting at all.

"What’s he playing these days?"

"Tekken 8, mostly. Some Street Fighter 6. He’s convinced he’s going to go pro someday." Chloe’s voice carried the affectionate exasperation of someone who had heard this claim many times. "Don’t encourage him. Our parents already think he spends too much time on games."

"Got it. No encouraging the fighting game career path."

Chloe finished the garlic and moved to the chicken, her knife work shifting to longer, smoother strokes as she portioned the meat. Jordan watched her hands, noting the small callus on her right index finger from hours of editing work and the precise way she maintained even thickness across each cut.

This was the girl who had built a six-figure business in her dorm room while maintaining a scholarship and a secret identity. This was the girl who sent money to her brother’s college fund every month without anyone knowing where it came from. This was the girl who had looked at Jordan McKnight, simp disaster and goon addict, and decided he was worth introducing to her family.

He was going to be the best fake-normal-not-too-rich-but-not-poor boyfriend in the history of Korean mother introductions.

Ah shit.

He’s totally screwed.