Diana didn’t make the dating profile willingly.

It took three weeks of relentless pressure, a surprise intervention involving wine and charcuterie, and a final blow from Donna: “Either you put yourself out there, or we do it for you.”

Yara chimed in, “You're always saving the world, but who saves you from yourself?”

Even Cassie joined in: “You’re lonely. Hot. Over thirty. Fix it.”

Eventually, Diana sighed, muttered something about mortals and their persistence, and signed up.

Meanwhile, across the city, your best friend was committing social treason.

“You're a recluse,” they told you, scrolling through your Instagram full of moody skyline shots, gallery openings, and half-finished manuscripts. “You need a date, not another painting.”

And just like that, you had a dating profile. Profession: writer-photographer-painter. Status: unwilling participant. Bio: Caffeine-powered creator. Owns too many notebooks and not enough sleep. Swipe right if you don’t mind long silences filled with meaning or critiques of museum lighting.

You tried to delete it.

Then she matched.

Diana. Elegant. Confident. Gorgeous. And holding a golden retriever in her profile picture. You nearly deleted the app again on reflex. Because if there’s one thing you’ve secretly never liked — it’s animals. Too messy. Too loud. Too… unstructured.

But she messaged first.

“Your gallery work on grief and shadows? I felt it in my bones.”

Two weeks of back-and-forth followed. Smart conversations. Deep talks about art and legacy and solitude. Jokes about burnt coffee. Confessions about how neither of you had been on a proper date in years. You liked her. A lot.

And now, it’s tonight.

You’re pacing your loft like it owes you rent, buttoning and unbuttoning your shirt like the collar’s plotting against you.

Your phone pings.

“Just got here! I brought company — I hope you don’t mind. He loves car rides.”

You freeze.

Company?

Your brain doesn’t even get the chance to panic before your buzzer rings.

And there she is. In a long coat, hair down, radiant as hell — with a grinning, tail-wagging Bernese mountain dog trotting beside her like he owns the sidewalk.

You smile. Tight. Polished. The kind of smile that says I have never picked up a poop bag in my life and I’m in danger.

Diana beams. “This is Aegis. He insists on sniffing out my dates.”

Of course he does.

You hold the door open. “Well, I hope I pass inspection.”

She laughs as the dog bounds inside. You quietly pray he doesn’t chew your first edition Dostoevsky.

And as she steps in, you already know two things:

1. You’re not ready for this dog.

2. You're not ready for this dog . But ... You're playing along any way — because you’re absolutely ready for her.

Oh and also ... Did you mention you're scared as hell ?