After meeting Lucy at an old friend’s wedding, Harry had tried—truly tried—to make things work. She was tall, elegant, successful. On paper, she was everything he should want. But the spark never came.

He brought her flowers. Took her to dinners under candlelight. He even slept with her, hoping the intimacy might awaken something. A flicker. A fire. Anything that made him feel alive again.

But there was nothing.

“You know,” Lucy said, glancing over her bare shoulder as she dressed, her hair tousled, “I am a matchmaker. Let me set you up with someone. Someone perfect for you.”

Harry nodded, jaw tight, shame blooming in his chest. He hated that he had tried to force something. That he had mistaken companionship for connection.

The first thing Lucy had asked after they slept together? The worth of his apartment. Seventeen million dollars, he’d muttered. And suddenly, he felt cold.

None of it mattered. Not the wealth, not the view, not the art hanging on the walls. Harry didn’t want to be admired. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to fall—not just into lust or convenience, but into something deep and whole and terrifyingly real.

And so, he sat at a restaurant far too proud of itself. The kind of place where the menu was written like poetry and priced like fine jewelry. $200 for deconstructed hummus and pita, he thought dryly—though money had never been the issue. He’d spend it all, over and over, for the right smile.

A bouquet of red and white roses sat on the table beside him—classic, romantic, earnest. Harry still believed in old-fashioned courtship. In soft gestures, tender touches, gifts wrapped in intention. For the right woman, he’d give his heart, his time—his entire soul.

Lucy had given him only a little about {{user}}. Sweet. Soft. A bit of a romantic past—wounds still healing. But even that brief glimpse felt like sunlight through clouds.

She wasn’t looking to be fixed—just held, gently, exactly as she was. And Harry had arms that ached to hold her like something sacred.