#03 Never trust a man in uniform

Dating apps are basically emotional Russian roulette. You either meet a guy who becomes your husband, or you meet a guy who texts you "u up?" at 2 a.m. and follows it up with a Snapchat of his sad, crooked dick 🍆. There’s really no in-between.

So when I matched with Rhys on Binge and the conversation was actually good, I was suspicious. Like, where’s the catch suspicious.

Not just surface-level good. He wasn’t asking me about my “love for travel” or if I “like to laugh” (who doesn’t, you psycho?). He was clever, quick-witted, and had that dry, self-assured humour that made me laugh out loud in public. The conversation flowed so naturally it felt like a scene from a rom-com—except this wasn’t a movie, and I definitely wasn’t the girl who gets a happy ending.

And then he dropped the bombshell: He was an intelligence officer with the Australian Defence Force.

A man in uniform? Be still my ovaries 😍

After about a week of flirty banter, he asked me out. He suggested this small Japanese restaurant tucked into an alleyway in the city—one of those ‘if you know, you know’ places. No sign out front, hidden behind a red curtain, the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re about to be recruited for a secret society. The whole thing felt suspiciously sophisticated for a man who once texted me “wyd” at 2 p.m., but I was into it.

On the drive there, I had that feeling—a mix of excitement and mild nausea. Based on his photos, he was cute. Based on our conversations, he was funny and sharp. Based on his job, he probably knew how to kill a man with his bare hands. Honestly, what more could you want?

I parked, checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, and walked toward the restaurant. And there he was.

And… oh. My. God.

Rhys was way more attractive in person. Tall, broad shoulders, dark brown hair swept back in that casually sexy way that somehow looks effortless even though you know there’s at least one expensive hair product involved. His skin was tanned like he’d just stepped off a boat in Monaco, and his eyes had that serious, I’ve seen some shit intensity 🤤.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. His voice was low and smooth—like honey over gravel.

My brain short-circuited. My body was already halfway into mating-season mode.

We sat down behind the curtains in a quiet corner of the restaurant. The lighting was low, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been cast in a high-budget Stan original series. He ordered for us—sushi, sashimi, tempura, and ramen. Normally, I’d find that presumptuous, but he did it with so much quiet confidence that I just handed over the reins.

The conversation flowed easily. He was funny, but not in that “I’m trying too hard” way. He listened. He made eye contact. He didn’t interrupt. At one point, he mentioned that he’d been deployed multiple times, but he said it so casually, like he was talking about going to Woolies. Yeah, just defended national security, no biggie.

We stayed until they practically had to shove us out the door. The staff was sweeping around us, giving us pointed looks, but we were too deep in conversation to care.

At the end of the night, we walked up to the counter to pay. That’s when he turned to me and said, "I don’t believe in taking away a woman’s rights, so if you’re happy to pay, go for it."

Um… what?

Was this a test? Because it felt like a test.

I mean, I’m independent. I usually do pay my own way. But after a night like that—after the intense eye contact, the deep conversations, and the dangerously sexy hand grazes—I would have appreciated a little bit of old-school chivalry. I handed over my card while trying to decide if this was progressive or just cheap.

He walked me to my car, opened the door, and just as I was about to sit down, he pulled me toward him and kissed me.

Slow. Deep. Confident.

I’m talking movie-level kiss. My knees literally buckled. I was so dazed that I drove home in complete silence—no music, no podcast, just me replaying that kiss over and over in my head like a complete psycho.

For the next few days, we texted constantly. Flirty. Playful. The conversation was heating up—heading toward late-night territory 🌶️.

And then came date two.

I’d had one of those hellish weeks at work—the kind where you fantasise about quitting your job and becoming a goat farmer in the mountains. I’d pulled 15-hour days and told Rhys I was running on fumes.

"Be downstairs in 15 minutes," he texted. "I’m taking you for a bite to eat."

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in his BMW, windows down, wearing a white linen button-up and jeans. He looked like an ad for an expensive cologne.

He took me to a little wine bar where he ordered for both of us (again). Wine and charcuterie. The conversation was easy again, and I could feel the tension simmering beneath the surface.

Afterward, he suggested a walk through the botanic gardens. It was quiet and dark, and my whole body was buzzing from the wine and his proximity.

He stopped walking, pulled me into him, and said, "I can’t wait any longer to have you again."

We made out like teenagers beneath the trees. Hands everywhere. His lips at my neck. My fingers in his hair.

He offered to drive me home. I said yes—but told him clearly that he wasn’t coming in.

Yeah… that didn’t last long.

The second we walked through the door, it was on. Kissing. Clothes off. Intensity.

And then…

He was awkward. He banged my head against the headboard twice.

And then came the squealing.

Not sexy groaning. Literal squealing. Like if a pig was being tickled. 🐷

When it was over, he rolled over, smiled at me, and said, "Snuggle?"

I reminded him—again—that he wasn’t staying the night.

"I gave my room to a friend. I don’t have anywhere to go - I will sleep on your couch if you don't want me in your bed"

At this point, I was so mentally fried and felt bad sending him out with nowhere to go that I sighed and gave in. He fell asleep in two minutes, snoring loud enough that I would never be able to fall asleep.

Then came Christmas.

Rhys had mentioned earlier in the week that he was meant to be flying home to Sydney to spend Christmas with his parents, but COVID had other plans. Travel restrictions were coming down hard, and the defence force had apparently banned all personal travel for the holidays. He seemed genuinely bummed about it, which—fair enough—being stuck alone at Christmas is grim.

So, when he asked if he could spend Christmas with my family, I felt a bit guilty saying no. I mean, I like my family, but we’re not exactly the Hallmark channel. Half of them would be arguing over how long the turkey had been in the oven while my uncle sat in the corner, drinking mid-strength beer and talking about real estate.

But still… we’d been on two dates. Two. That’s barely enough time to remember someone's coffee order, let alone invite them to family Christmas.

I politely declined, explaining that Christmas was kind of sacred family time for me, but I softened the blow by inviting him to my Boxing Day party instead. It seemed like a good compromise—low-stakes, casual vibes, and a chance for him to meet my friends and see how he fit into my world. Plus, if things got weird, I’d have a built-in escape plan.

He seemed happy with that arrangement. Everything was fine. Or so I thought.

On Christmas morning, I woke up to a notification from Instagram.

It wasn’t from Rhys.

It was from his wife.

At first, I thought it had to be a mistake. A scam. Someone trolling me. But no. The message was long, angry, and disturbingly detailed.

She accused me of being a homewrecker. Said she was disgusted that Rhys had chosen to spend Christmas with me instead of his family. She told me they were still together, that they had two kids—one of whom was just four months old.

FOUR. MONTHS. OLD.

I sat there, reading and rereading the message, trying to process how this could possibly be real. I mean, we’d been talking for weeks. He’d never mentioned kids. Never mentioned a wife. How do you casually forget to mention that you have an entire family?

I felt sick.

I responded as politely as I could—something along the lines of, "I’m so sorry to hear this. I had absolutely no idea he was married. I’m really sorry for any pain this has caused you."

Then I blocked her account. I wasn’t about to spend my favourite day of the year getting caught up in some guy’s mess.

About an hour later, I got a text from Rhys: "Sorry, Dee went through my phone. I only just realised when I saw the messages she sent you. I promise it’s not what it looks like—we’re going through a divorce. It’s all in the past now. I swear there’s nothing to worry about."

Nothing to worry about? Mate, your wife just called me a homewrecker and accused you of abandoning your newborn for a sushi date.

I took a deep breath and responded: "It was a surprise to hear from your wife. But whether you're together or not, your kids aren't in your past, they are your present and future. I’m sure they’d like to spend Christmas with their dad. All the best."

And that was it. I thought I was done. I genuinely thought that would be the end of it.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

Three weeks after the Christmas Day drama, I was sitting on my couch one night, wine in hand, laptop balanced on my knees, when there was a knock at the door.

I assumed it was one of my neighbours. It wasn’t unusual for them to pop by unannounced, and besides—you needed a swipe card to get into the building. The idea that it could be anyone else didn’t even cross my mind.

I opened the door.

And there he was.

Rhys.

Standing there, smiling like he was delivering a pizza instead of the worst news of my life.

He was holding a bottle of wine, dressed in a fitted shirt and jeans, looking as effortlessly hot as he had the first night I met him. That calm, self-assured energy was radiating off him like nothing had happened. Like his wife hadn’t messaged me on Christmas morning to let me know about his other life—and his two kids. One of them a newborn.

He said he had good news. The kind of upbeat tone you’d expect from someone telling you they got a promotion—not someone trying to downplay their marital status. Apparently, he’d ended things with Dee. He’d ‘handled’ it. All sorted. Wrapped up like it was a loose end in a project at work.

And then he dropped the bomb. He’d rented an apartment in my building. Just a few floors down. So we could “see each other more often” and avoid the hassle of scheduling.

My brain short-circuited. He wasn’t just in the building—he was in my building. 

My body stiffened. My brain started scrambling to rationalise it. Surely this was a joke. But no—he was standing there, smiling like he’d just handed me flowers.

There was something so casual about the way he said it that it made my stomach drop. He wasn’t doing this because he was swept up in the rush of new love. He was doing it because he thought it made sense. He had calculated that this was a logical next step. He had moved into my building like it was a strategic military operation.

It hit me then—he didn’t see anything wrong with this. In his mind, this was romantic. Efficient. A tactical solution to the inconvenience of distance.

My heart hammered in my chest. I took a step back, gripping the doorframe like it might give me strength. My eyes flicked down the hall, looking for anyone nearby. Empty. Just him and me.

I told him this wasn’t okay. That he hadn’t just lied about being married—he had lied about his whole life. His kids. His marriage. And now he’d moved into my building.

He smiled. Actually smiled. That same soft, knowing smile he gave me on our first date, back when I thought this was all cute and effortless.

He brushed it off like it was nothing. He said I was overreacting. That it wasn’t a big deal. He thought I’d calm down eventually and see how convenient it was.

Convenient.

It wasn’t convenience—it was control. He wanted to embed himself into my life in a way that made it hard for me to pull away. Moving into my building wasn’t a gesture of love—it was a strategic move to eliminate the space I had left between us.

My mouth was dry. My stomach was churning. I could feel my pulse in my throat. He was still standing there, calm as anything. Watching me. Like he was assessing my reaction. Like this was a test.

I told him to leave.

He didn’t budge at first, just stood there smiling like I was being dramatic. Then, after a tense moment, he stepped back. He told me he'd see me soon. Like we’d just made casual plans for coffee.

I closed the door. Locked it. Double checked it. Then backed away from the door, listening for his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

My hands were shaking as I called my friend who lived two floors down. She was at my door within minutes. I told her everything—about the wife, the kids, and now the fact that he had moved into my building. She sat there wide-eyed as I tried to process how this had gone from “cute date” to “possible episode of Law & Order.”

I didn’t sleep that night. The thought of him being a few floors away, able to track my comings and goings, made me nauseous. I started imagining him standing outside my door, listening.

Watching.

After that, I started staying with friends. I would leave for work early and come home late, trying to avoid running into him.

Luckily, I’d already been looking for a place to buy at the time, so I accelerated the process. I put in an offer on a house that week and when it was accepted, I got out of that building as fast as humanly possible.

I didn’t even pack my own things—I had friends come and handle it while I was at work so Rhys wouldn’t see me leaving. The building manager told me Rhys had tried knocking on my door several times while I was gone. He’d also been “casually” hanging around the lobby.

Casual, my arse.

I moved out quietly. No big goodbye. I blocked his number. Blocked him on everything. For a while, I didn’t hear from him. I figured that was the end of it.

About four months later, I was walking along the river, headphones in, sun on my face, living my best life. I was finally feeling like I’d gotten my groove back.

And then I saw him.

Rhys.

He was walking toward me from the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, head down, looking like the human version of a beige wall. My heart rate spiked so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. That awful, sinking feeling hit me instantly—the kind you get when you realise you’ve left your straightener on and your house is probably burning down as you speak 🔥.

I took a deep breath and braced myself as he got closer. His eyes lifted and locked onto mine.

And then… he smiled.

Not an “oops, awkward” smile. Not a “hey, sorry I gaslit you and moved into your building” smile.

No—just a polite, blank little smile. The kind you give when you accidentally make eye contact with someone at Coles while deciding which brand of pasta to buy 🍝.

No flicker of recognition. No hesitation. Just… nothing.

And then he walked straight past me. Didn’t even slow down. Didn’t even double-take. Just strolled off into the sunset like we hadn’t made out in the botanic gardens, or like he hadn’t squealed during sex, or like he hadn’t moved into my actual building to stalk me.

That’s when it hit me. He wasn’t just a liar. He wasn’t just a cheater. He was a full-blown psychopath. The kind of person who could look you dead in the eye, lie straight through his teeth, and then delete you from his memory like you were a spam email.

I didn’t stop walking. I didn’t turn around. I just kept moving, heart hammering in my chest, because I finally understood exactly what I’d been dealing with: a military-trained lunatic who thought stalking was a love language 🚩.