You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for fifteen minutes, but your editor’s red pen is already attacking it like a ravenous beast.

“You cannot make the protagonist fall for her rival this fast,” she says, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “There needs to be more tension. More subtle glances. Less... insta-love.”

You glance up, meeting her fierce gaze. “But the readers want passion. Fire. The kind of love that hits you like a thunderstorm.”

She scoffs, sliding the manuscript back across the table. “And I’m here to make sure it’s a slow burn. Otherwise, it’s just teenage drama disguised as sapphic romance.”

You grin. “So, you’re saying I should torture my characters more?”

Her smile is sly now, like she knows she’s won this round. “Exactly.”

She leans in, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret.

“You know,” she says, “maybe you could take some of that passion and apply it somewhere... more real.”

You laugh, but your heart stutters. “Oh? Like where?”

Her eyes flicker, mischievous and serious all at once. “Maybe with someone who’s not just a character on a page.”

You meet her gaze — and suddenly the room feels smaller, the air thicker.

“Careful,” you say, voice low. “You’re making editing dangerous.”

She smirks, flipping her pen between her fingers. “Good. Maybe I like dangerous.”