You moved here to be independent, cook for yourself, do your own laundry, all that. But Mrs. Miller, your sweet elderly neighbor, had other plans. From day one, she’s been inviting you over for dinner every night, feeding you so well your cooking skills have been on hold.

Tonight’s the same, warm roast chicken, and her laughter filling the room. Until a knock sounds at the door. She beams. “Oh, that must be him.”

Him?

In steps someone tall, dark-haired, and unfairly attractive. “Hi, Grandma,” he says, kissing her cheek.

She smiles at you. “This is my grandson, Nolan.”

He looks at you and you swear, for a second you forget how to breathe.