You had always loved stories. The messy ones, the beautiful ones, the ones that made your stomach twist and your heart race. So when Dan Humphrey — Brooklyn’s literary darling turned novelist — agreed to let you edit his next book, it should have been a dream come true.

Except… it wasn’t.

From the first manuscript, sparks flew — just not the romantic kind. Dan’s sentences were long, poetic, and at times infuriatingly obtuse. Every time you suggested a change, he countered with a rationale so eloquent you had to admit he might be right — but still wrong.

“You can’t start chapter three with a monologue about existential dread,” you said, pointing at the page with your red pen poised like a sword.

Dan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Why not? It’s the emotional core of the character. You can’t just cut poetry because it makes your eyes water.”

“It’s not poetry, Dan.” You tapped the page. “It’s self-indulgence. Readers don’t need to know he spent two hours staring at pigeons outside his window.”

“And yet, pigeons are symbolic!” he argued, voice rising in mock indignation.

This was your life now: late nights in a cluttered Brooklyn loft, debating every word, every paragraph. You’d grown used to the coffee stains on your notebook, the half-eaten bagels on his kitchen counter, the tension simmering between you.

And maybe… you’d grown used to him too.

One night, after yet another heated rewrite session, Dan leaned over your shoulder as you adjusted a chapter’s pacing. “You know,” he said quietly, “I like it when you argue with me.”

You froze. “Excuse me?”

“You get all fiery when you edit me. Passionate. Intense. I… like it.”

You swallowed, heart skipping. “This is professional, Humphrey.”

“Professional doesn’t have to mean boring,” he murmured, brushing a stray hair from your face.

You pulled back, a mix of annoyance and something warmer burning in your chest. “Focus on your manuscript. Not me.”

But later that night, as you read through his chapters, you caught yourself smiling at his footnotes, laughing quietly at his sarcastic side-notes, even pausing at his handwritten comment:

If you’re going to argue with me, at least make it interesting.

By the time the sun peeked over Brooklyn, your red pen was exhausted, your coffee cup empty, and your feelings… completely tangled.