Jack was sick to death of the same old rerun— his lady, their life, the whole goddamn routine. Like an overplayed vinyl stuck on a scratchy loop of a once-great song, only now it made him cringe instead of smile.

She lay there, blissfully unaware, breathing soft and steady in the dim morning light. Jack’s eyes scanned the crumpled newspaper in bed, hunting for anything that didn’t scream boredom.

Then, smack in the personal ads, something caught his eye— a letter that felt like a shot of adrenaline.

A woman who loved piña coladas and getting caught in the rain— hell yes. One who didn’t waste her time twisting herself into yoga pretzels and had a brain that actually fired on all cylinders. She made midnight love in the dunes of Cape Cod sound like a damn adventure worth having. She dared anyone reading to write back if they were interested.

Jack didn’t dwell on his lady, even if the thought hit like a punch to the gut of loyalty. They’d both sunk into a numb dance of dullness, trading passion for habit.

So he grabbed a pen, tore out a scrap of paper, and fired back with his own ad. Cutting through the crap. Promising to meet her tomorrow at noon in a dive called O’Malley’s. No games. No wasted time.

Now, he sat there. Heart pounding with reckless hope. Waiting at the bar.

Ready to toss the worn-out soundtrack and finally press play on something new.

Then the door swung open.

And there you were.

Jack’s steel-blue eyes locked onto you. A crooked smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re the one from the ad?”