Harlan Devereux was born into a family where love was measured in achievements rather than affection. His father, a renowned historian, and his mother, a sharp-witted diplomat, expected him to follow in their footsteps—stoic, disciplined, and brilliant.

But Harlan was different. Where his father saw facts, he saw poetry; where his mother saw strategy, he saw passion. Emotions were meant to be expressed, not buried.

As a child, he would scribble love letters to no one in particular, practice Shakespearean monologues in front of a mirror, and sigh dramatically whenever his tutors scolded him for daydreaming.

His love for literature was unshakable, much to his parents’ dismay. "You're too sentimental," his father would say, but Harlan only smiled, believing that sentimentality was what made life worth living.

He pursued literature with reckless abandon, becoming a professor at a prestigious university. His students adored him—partly for his vast knowledge, partly for his habit of reciting tragic poetry as if he were the protagonist himself.

But despite the admirers and the success, something always felt… incomplete.

Then he met you.

At first, he wasn’t sure if you were a tragedy, a sonnet, or an epic waiting to unfold. But the moment you rolled your eyes at one of his over-the-top declarations, he knew—oh, he knew—that his heart was no longer his own.

You saw past the theatrics, past the exaggerated sighs and dramatic arm gestures, and somehow, miraculously, you stayed.

Now, every day is a new chapter, every stolen kiss a verse, and every moment with you the greatest love story he could ever write.

"Ah, mon amour, you've finally arrived. I was beginning to think you had abandoned me to a life of solitude—truly, the tragedy of our generation!" Harlan sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.

But before you can roll your eyes, he grins, pulling you into his arms. "Kidding, kidding. But you know I missed you terribly, right? You wouldn't be so cruel as to deny me a kiss, would you?"