I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who posts a guy’s face online. But last night was something else.
Third date. That magical number when things either click or quietly dissolve. I met Dorian at this tucked-away wine-and-tea lounge he picked—somewhere between rustic and romantic, with tiny mosaic lamps hanging low over mismatched tables and the gentle scent of jasmine wafting in the air. It was the kind of place people stumbled on once and then kept secret, as if it were too good for the world.
Dorian was already there when I arrived, hunched over a teacup like he was trying to read its future. He looked up, smiled, and stood like a gentleman. Third date, and he still pulled my chair out for me. He had this old-school charm: neatly pressed clothes, leather shoes that weren’t flashy but definitely expensive, and the kind of attention to detail that made you feel seen. Noticed. Cared for.
I’d liked him since the first date. He didn’t overshare or dominate the conversation. He asked good questions, listened, laughed at the right moments. There was something solid about him, like he knew who he was but didn’t feel the need to prove it. He was nervous, though. I could always tell when his thumb rubbed the inside of his wrist—that small tic he probably thought no one noticed.
Anyway, we ordered Earl Grey and a tiny plate of apricot tartlets. The lounge played faint bossa nova, just low enough that our voices filled the space between us. And for the first time, he actually smiled—like really smiled. I hadn’t seen that side of him before. Not on date one, not on date two. And something about that moment—candlelight flickering, his hands wrapped around the delicate cup, the corners of his eyes crinkling—I just wanted to hold onto it.
So, without thinking, I pulled out my phone and took a photo.
The shutter sound was barely audible. But his reaction?
Immediate.
Violent, almost.
He recoiled, knocking over his teacup. Hands up like I’d just slapped him. His eyes went from warm to wild in a blink. Panic poured off him. Real, visceral panic. I froze.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I wasn’t going to post it anywhere. I just… it was a nice moment.”
He didn’t speak. Just shook his head like I’d done something unthinkable. His lips parted, then closed. Finally, he muttered, “Why would you do that?”
I tried to laugh it off gently, “It was just a candid. I liked the light. You looked… happy.”
“You don’t get to take photos of me,” he said, eyes locked on mine like I was some kind of threat.
And then—just like that—he said, “Never mind. Can you delete it?”
I did. Right there in front of him. Showed him the trash icon, even cleared the recently deleted folder.
He nodded, but the air had changed. He was no longer folding napkins or pouring tea. He kept checking over his shoulder, eyes scanning the door, twitching like he expected someone else to appear.
We finished the date, sort of. It was quiet. Stiff. When we hugged goodbye, his body barely touched mine. Cold, like stone.
That should’ve been the end of it. A weird date story for my group chat.
But walking home, I couldn’t shake the feeling. Not just the flinch. The fear. The way his voice dropped when he said, “You don’t get to take photos of me,” like there was something deeper there—something threatening.
So I did something I never thought I’d do.
There’s this private group online—women in the city looking out for each other. Think: digital neighborhood watch for dating. You can post a photo, first name, and details, and ask if anyone’s got info. A friend told me about it after a guy she dated turned out to have a wife and two kids two towns over.
I felt bad. I really did. But curiosity is a slippery thing. So I logged in, uploaded a screenshot of his profile pic from the app, and typed: “Anyone know Dorian, 31, says he works in logistics? Three dates in, super private, freaked out when I took a candid photo. Just feels… off. Hoping it’s nothing.”
I went to sleep feeling like a terrible person.
The next morning, I had six messages.
The first was short: Be careful. He’s not who he says he is.
The second: That’s definitely him. His name’s not Dorian. It’s Cal. Cal Morris. He used to work with my sister. Got fired for creeping on a coworker.
Then the flood came in. Screenshots. Stories. One woman had dated him for three months. Thought he was charming, maybe just “a little shy.” Then he disappeared—ghosted her. She later found out from a friend that he’d been using multiple aliases on different dating apps. Another woman said he’d asked her to meet his “mom,” but when she showed up, it was a vacant lot.
And then came the one that made my stomach turn.
He dated my friend. She found a camera hidden in his bathroom.
I read that one three times.
Then another woman messaged: He has an active restraining order in Washington. Check public records under Cal Morris.
I didn’t need to see more. I sat there, phone shaking in my hand. My tea had gone cold beside me, untouched. He wasn’t just guarded. He was hiding.
I sent a quick thank you to the group, deleted my dating app, and blocked his number. But I couldn’t sit still. I called the non-emergency police line, gave them the details, and left it in their hands.
Days passed. I tried to forget. But last night, I got an email from one of the admins of the group.
Hey. Just thought you’d want to know. A few of us flagged Cal’s profile to the app. It’s been removed. Also, someone found a record of his last employer pressing charges for stalking. You did the right thing.
I sat with that message for a while. Let it sink in.
Not every weird date is a red flag. Some people are just private. But there’s a difference between privacy and secrecy. Between being cautious and being dangerous.
I’m glad I took that photo.
I’m glad I listened to my gut.
And I’m glad there’s a quiet little corner of the internet where women have each other’s backs—where a single post can save someone from a much darker ending.
So yeah, maybe the date didn’t end with a kiss. Maybe it ended with a warning.
But sometimes, that’s the most romantic outcome of all—because it means you get to write a better story next time.
Would you have done the same?
