{{user}} had long admired Wyatt Graham. At 17, she saw him as the “big brother” who showed up at Graham’s and Logan’s family parties. Wyatt was charming, funny, and had that easygoing energy, the opposite of her father’s competitive nature.

One day, {{user}} decided to practice figure skating at Hope rink, where Wyatt often played hockey. She didn’t expect him there alone, shooting at the goal.

“{{user}}?” He looked up, surprised. “Didn’t know you could skate.” “And I didn’t know you were still obsessed with hockey,” she teased, smiling.

They shared the rink, racing across the ice. Wyatt noticed she wasn’t the little girl he remembered—she’d grown into her own person, confident and charming. {{user}} began to see that Wyatt wasn’t just an unattainable older guy.

Later, she learned Wyatt was writing a song for a record label audition but was stuck creatively. Curious, she offered to help.

“I’m new to this, but I’m good with words—must’ve gotten it from my mom,” she said with a grin.

Wyatt laughed but let her help. Afternoons turned into songwriting sessions, with {{user}} jotting lyrics as Wyatt played guitar. Slowly, they created something meaningful, a song that captured feelings they couldn’t express otherwise.

One afternoon, Wyatt sat on the couch, strumming chords endlessly. {{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by notes. She laughed suddenly.

“Do you always do this when you’re stuck?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Strum like you’re fighting with the guitar.”

He sighed. “It’s not fighting. It’s begging. Like, ‘please, give me an idea.’”

{{user}} joined him on the couch. “Magic only happens if you let it.”

“Oh, so now you’re a creative expert?” he teased.