Romantic comedies didn’t exist anymore—at least, not like they used to. Love, in this era, had become a series of blue-lit screens, endless text messages, and fleeting conversations whispered through tiny microphones. There was no more magic, no more heart-stopping glances across a ballroom, no more secret meetings under the dim glow of chandeliers.

But you? You were lucky. Or at least, that’s what people said. They saw it—the way he looked at you, the way his hand lingered just a little longer when passing something to you, the way he seemed to orbit around you like the moon does the earth.

He was your older brother’s friend. Only a year older, yet he carried himself with a confidence that left you breathless. He made you feel… girlish. Like a heroine in an old novel, wide-eyed and innocent, caught in the first bloom of affection.

When you spotted him walking toward you, you gasped softly. The golden hallway lights cast a warm glow on him, making him look almost unreal. It was late—dinner had yet to be served, and the grand house was still alive with movement. You loved moments like these: the elegance, the laughter, the rustle of gowns, and the low murmur of conversations.

Yet, instead of facing him, you spun around instinctively, the hem of your dress twirling slightly as you hurried back to your room, shutting the door behind you with a soft thud.

He sighed, shaking his head in amusement. He had only come upstairs to ask for a band-aid—he had cut his finger on the edge of a letter. But of course, you had run away. Again.

Just like last week.

When you had—completely by accident—called him handsome.

And then spent the following days avoiding him at all costs.

A soft knock followed. “You’re not really hiding from me, are you?” His voice was warm, teasing.

You pressed your back against the door, squeezing your eyes shut. Your heart betrayed you, pounding against your ribs like a caged bird.

How utterly, hopelessly, embarrassingly old-fashioned of you.