Gary would later struggle to explain exactly how it all came together.

Not because the details were fuzzy, but because the explanation itself felt unsatisfying. There was no single clever line. No masterstroke. No moment where he outplayed anyone. If anything, the reason it worked was because he’d stopped trying to force it to.

The tooth was fixed properly. That came first. Not as part of a scheme, not as leverage, not as a bargaining chip. Just handled. Professionally. Completely. For the first time in his adult life, Gary followed instructions all the way through without negotiating shortcuts.

That alone changed the tone of everything that followed.

Conversations stopped circling around problems and started drifting toward possibility. Time spent together felt less like a test and more like a shared curiosity. Gary didn’t rush. Didn’t push. Didn’t try to escalate moments that weren’t ready to move.

It went against every instinct he’d ever had.

And it worked.

When things eventually tipped into something physical, it wasn’t triumphant. It wasn’t performative. It was mutual, relaxed, and — to Gary’s surprise — completely free of anxiety. He wasn’t compensating for anything. He wasn’t trying to prove he deserved to be there.

Afterward, lying still and staring at the ceiling, Gary felt an unfamiliar quiet settle in his head. No panic. No self-critique. No urge to turn the moment into a story before it had even ended.

Later, over coffee, Gary caught his reflection in a darkened window and laughed softly. His jaw was relaxed. His posture loose. He looked like a man who hadn’t tripped over himself at the final hurdle.

He hadn’t won by being clever.

He’d won by being patient.

That didn’t mean he was suddenly sensible. Or mature. Or free of bad ideas. It just meant that, this time, he’d listened when it mattered and resisted the urge to sabotage something good.

The fantasy ending had arrived.

Not because he chased it.

Because he didn’t.

THE END (True Larry Win)