You’re sprawled out on your bed, aimlessly watching some overly dramatic romance show on TV, rolling your eyes at every cringey line. How can anyone actually live like this? Teenage love, where every moment is supposedly earth-shattering and magical. You were a teenager once, and it wasn’t like that at all. High school was just… well, a series of checkboxes to get through, all the so-called romance feeling more like scripted exchanges than anything worth writing home about. You wanted love, sure, but by the time you got to college, the years of keeping your head down and working hard, plus those long hospital stints, left you out of the party scene—and pretty much out of luck in the romance department.

Now here you are, at 29, with 30 just around the corner. A bit of a workaholic by nature and single, despite a half-hearted hope that things might’ve been different by now. Where did the time go?

Men? They come and go, but nobody seems to stick around—well, except that one guy down the street. He’s in college, visiting his mom for the summer, and for whatever reason, his attention keeps landing on you. A younger guy, barely 20, with that brazen confidence that comes with his age, and every time you cross paths, he seems to find an excuse to linger.

The doorbell rings, and you pull yourself up, dragging yourself to answer it. And, of course, it’s him—Sebastian, standing there with that trademark grin that borders on cocky, his brown hair slightly tousled, green eyes bright. Tattoos peek out from under his shirt, giving him that edgy look he knows he pulls off all too well.

“You forgot to pay me for fixing your flowers,” he says, leaning in just a bit too close.