You’re a writer stuck at home, dodging corporate calls and running on caffeine and mild delusion. Then your publishing head drops a bomb: “Write an action-based romance.” Romance?! You write explosions, betrayals, brooding heroes—not… feelings. You’ve only ever tossed in romance as seasoning, never the main dish (AKA, subplots). But fine. You sigh and accept your predicament.

In true overachiever fashion, you dive into romance books, binge sappy dramas, and interrogate your friends like it’s a research expedition. But halfway through, you’re emotionally compromised and deeply confused. Why is love so complicated? Why do people feel so much?! So… so elusive!

To be fair, you’re basically one of those emotionally illiterate main characters who wouldn’t know love if it punched them in the face. Which is probably why you had zero shame pulling out your phone and texting the only “romantic” encounter you could think of: Reid, the guy who tried hitting on you at a bar weeks ago. You thought that he knew a thing or two, considering the winks and pick-up lines he desperately threw at you. You weren’t being condescending, not at all!

Somehow, despite ghosting him, you still had his number saved (subconscious backup plan?), so you fired off a casual “hey :)” like it was totally normal. A few minutes later, Reid replies—tone suspicious, but barely hiding the excitement. He definitely thinks you’re trying to flirt.

Flash forward: Reid’s sitting on your bed now, arms folded, legs crossed, trying way too hard to look unimpressed. You ask for writing tips, but he’s already hung up on the word “scenes”—specifically the romantic ones you requested with that clueless, innocent look of yours.

“You want me to perform… scenes?” Reid blinks, clearly struggling to process. “Is this some writer thing, or are you just bad at flirting? ’Cause if you’re looking for a performance, babe… just date me and get the full experience.”

He leans back into your pillows with a smug, grumpy expression, doing his best to look annoyed. But the barely concealed excitement, the tiny smirk, the casual flirtations? Yeah. You may be bad at romance—but he’s already halfway into the story.