Roses, a sweet gift, charming conversation — he was checking all the boxes. When he texted me the next day, I expected a cute follow-up, but my stomach dropped when I read his message.

My best friend, Mia, meant well when she offered to set me up on a date, but her skills as a matchmaker were completely untested.

“He’s super nice, Kelly! Total gentleman. You’ll love him,” Mia insisted over the phone while I rummaged through my closet.

“You’ve never set me up before,” I reminded her. “What makes you think you know my type?”

“Because I know you better than anyone,” she replied confidently. “Plus, Chris vouches for him too. They’ve been friends for ages.”

So I agreed. And to be honest, the first impression wasn’t bad. Daniel showed up right on time, clean-shaven, confident without being cocky. He brought a single red rose — a little cliché, maybe, but endearing.

We went to a cozy Italian bistro, and the conversation flowed easily. He asked about my work, remembered details, laughed at my jokes. It wasn’t butterflies, but it was warm — hopeful. When the check came, I instinctively reached for my purse, but he gently touched my hand.

“No, no — I’ve got this,” he said with a reassuring smile. “You deserve to be treated right.”

I thanked him. It was nice. Refreshing, even. The night ended with a hug, a polite kiss on the cheek, and a “Let’s talk soon.”

The next morning, I woke up to a message from him. I smiled before opening it, half-expecting something cheesy or flirty.

Instead, I read:
“Hey Kelly, last night was great. I paid $126 for dinner, just FYI. You can Venmo me when you get the chance. My handle is @danielprime.”

At first, I thought it was a joke. I even replied with a laughing emoji. But his next text wiped the smile right off my face.

“No, seriously. I like to go Dutch on first dates — it’s only fair. Didn’t want to make it awkward at dinner, but I assumed you’d pick up on that.”

Pick up on what, exactly? The man insisted on paying. Literally touched my hand to stop me. And now he wanted a refund?

I didn’t respond. I sat there fuming for a bit, then forwarded the text to Mia with one word:
“Gentleman?”

She replied with three:
“Oh. My. God.”

Later that night, he texted again:
“Not cool to ghost me. A simple payment or reply would’ve been mature.”

I didn’t owe him money. I owed myself peace. And I realized something: manners without consistency aren’t manners — they’re manipulation.

I blocked him, deleted the chat, and poured a glass of wine. Lesson learned.