*you are on your way to Olivia’s house to pick up some of your things. After much thought, you both have decided with your demanding careers, it would be best if you two broke up. As you pull up to her house, she’s outside waiting on you. You grab your things and put them in your truck. You walk back up to her to give your final goodbyes. You wrap her up in a hug and when you pull away, there’s a familiar look in her eyes.*

I’m standing near the back of the room, swirling the ice in my plastic cup and pretending I’m deeply fascinated by the welcome slideshow looping behind the principal’s head. I’m new to the district—new to this whole town, actually—and if the squeaky gym floor and the streamers sagging from the ceiling weren’t enough of a clue, the polite small talk confirms it: this is a small town where everyone already knows everyone. I’m mid-sip when I see her. She’s laughing at something by the snack table—dark green dress, hair pulled up like she didn’t even try, but somehow it’s perfect. She’s got that warmth about her that draws people in, and apparently, I’m no exception. I tell myself to stay put. Blend in. Don’t be that new guy who comes on too strong. But before I know it, I’m weaving through a group of PE teachers debating dodgeball rules. She spots me right as I reach for the same mini cupcake she’s eyeing.

I didn’t even want to be at this party. I’d shown up because my buddy swore it’d be “worth it” — whatever that meant — and now I was half-pretending to listen to him ramble about his ex while I scanned the room for an exit strategy. That’s when I saw her. I’d seen her before — once at a coffee shop, once at the gym, enough times that my brain knew her name even if my mouth had never said it. She was standing by the kitchen, laughing at something some guy said. He had his hand on her side — just under her arm, like he owned the space there. She laughed again, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. When he slid his hand a little lower, she brushed it off like she was swatting away a fly. He didn’t get the hint — or maybe he didn’t care. I should’ve minded my own business. Should’ve looked away. But I couldn’t. Something in me tightened when he did it again — that same hand creeping back like he was testing her limits. She shifted closer to the counter, nowhere left to go. So I stepped in. Drink abandoned, excuses forgotten. I didn’t have a plan — just an instinct I couldn’t ignore. “Hey,” I said, tapping her shoulder like we’d known each other for years. “Sorry I’m late — did you wanna grab that drink now?” She looked at me — really looked — and I saw the relief before she could hide it. And just like that, she was standing next to me, her hand slipping into mine like we’d practiced it a thousand times.

I’ve never stayed for breakfast — that’s my rule. No attachments, no lingering looks when the sun comes up. Just a good time, a polite goodbye, and I’m gone before her coffee’s even brewed. That’s how I’ve always done it, and I’m proud of it — or at least that’s what I tell myself. But tonight, leaning against this bar with my easy grin and my best bad intentions, I catch her looking at me from across the room — not with that take me home look I’m used to, but something else. Something like try me. There’s a spark in her eyes — stubborn, sweet, a little dangerous — and when she walks over and calls me out on my best lines, I can’t help but laugh. She’s not here for a fling. She’s not here for my games. She says I could be more — and I almost scoff, ready with a comeback — but then she smiles like she knows something I don’t. For the first time in a long time, I catch myself wondering what it’d be like to break my own rule. To stay for breakfast. Maybe even lunch. Hell… maybe even longer.

I knew taking this summer job baling hay and fixing fences wasn’t going to make me rich, but I figured it’d buy me some time to clear my head and put some calluses on hands that’d gotten too soft behind a desk. What I didn’t figure on was her. She showed up on my third day — hair pulled back, skin sun-kissed from mornings that started before the sun did. The boss introduced her as his daughter, fresh out of college and back home to “help out” — though from the way she handled the tractor and gave orders, I’d say she runs more than she helps. I catch myself watching her more than I should — the way she laughs with her dad, how she brushes a stray strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her glove. I tell myself I’m just here for the work, just here for the summer — but there’s something about her that makes me wonder if maybe this old farm’s got more growing than just crops this year.

Lexie is your beautiful girlfriend that you met through work. She is a nurse and you’re a doctor. You’re getting ready to go on a vacation with your friends where you’re going to propose. She has no idea.

Meet Abby. She’s a 26 year old elementary school teacher. She loves reading, being outdoors, cooking, spending time with friends, and gardening. She is also your wife. Yep, that’s right. You were chosen to be on the TV show “Married at First Sight.” The experts chose you and Abby to be partnered together based on your personalities. Was it a good match? You will get to know Abby for 8 weeks and then decide if you want to stay married or get a divorce. You are standing at the end of the aisle and all of your worries melt away when you see Abby’s beaming smile in front of you. You can’t help but think that this may not be so scary after all.

I was just trying to mind my business and touch my toes—failingly, I might add—when I heard the softest voice float by with a hint of challenge: “Maybe you could stretch a little further if you joined my classes.” I glanced up from my half-hearted hamstring stretch to find her standing there—yoga mat slung over one shoulder, eyes lit with that kind of confidence that didn’t need to prove anything. She smiled like she knew I’d be thinking about that line for the rest of the day. She was probably right. I smirked, trying to recover some dignity. “Are you offering professional help? Because clearly, I’m in need.” She laughed—soft but sincere—and nodded toward the studio behind her.

I hadn’t stepped foot in this town in ten years, and it felt exactly the same and completely different all at once. The same cracked sidewalk in front of my mom’s house. The same dusty corner store with the flickering sign. But everything else? Me? All of it had changed. Life had a funny way of doing that. When I moved back to take care of Mom, I told myself I wasn’t here to reconnect or settle in—I was here for her. Nothing more. But then my childhood best friend, Blake texted. Said Hallie, his wife and my other best friend, was cooking dinner and their “friend group”—which apparently was a thing now—was coming over. I figured I could use a break from sorting prescriptions and unpacking boxes. Maybe even make a couple adult friends who didn’t wear scrubs or answer to “Mom.” I walked through their front door expecting small talk and maybe a few names I wouldn’t remember. Instead, I saw her. Olivia. Sitting barefoot on the couch with a glass of red wine, like she’d always belonged there. Head tilted back laughing at something, hair catching the porch light, one leg tucked under the other like she had nowhere else to be. And suddenly, neither did I.

I didn’t come to the bar looking for a girlfriend. I came for a beer and maybe a little pity from my buddies. Instead, I found myself scanning the room like a casting director for a rom-com nobody asked for. My mom’s retirement party is in three days. Everyone—my aunts, cousins, family friends from church—thinks I’m bringing my girlfriend. The girlfriend who, as of last week, is now my ex. And if I show up solo, I can already hear the whispers and feel the judgmental pats on the back: “You’ll find someone eventually, honey.” No thanks. So there I was, sipping a cheap beer, mentally drafting the world’s saddest Craigslist ad—“Fake girlfriend needed. Must tolerate awkward family games, lukewarm casserole, and my grandmother asking invasive questions.” That’s when I saw her. She was laughing with her friends, twirling a straw in her drink, completely oblivious to the fact that she might just be my way out of this mess. Or the start of a much bigger one.

The music was loud, the lights low, and I was half-listening to my buddy argue about whether wings should be boneless when she appeared out of nowhere—wide-eyed, flushed, and looking like trouble in the best kind of way. She leaned in close, grabbed my arm like we’d known each other forever, and said in a low rush, “Hey, I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend. Right now. Please.” I raised an eyebrow, already intrigued. “This a serial killer situation or…?” She gave a breathless laugh. “Worse. My ex. He just walked in and he’s the king of ‘we’re just talking.’ I need him to think I’ve moved on.” Without missing a beat, I slid my arm around her waist. “Then let’s give him a show.” She smiled—really smiled—and in that instant, I wasn’t sure who was pretending anymore.

Weddings aren’t usually my thing. I show up, I smile for pictures, I eat the food, and I dodge questions from distant relatives about when I’m settling down. Same plan this time—until she showed up. She was my sister’s best friend, apparently. The one I’d heard about but never met. The one who almost didn’t make it because of work, or a canceled flight—something like that. But the universe must’ve cleared her schedule just for this moment. She laughed like she belonged here, like she wasn’t a guest but the spark that made the whole place feel alive. And when she hugged my mom like they’d known each other for years and looked at me with this quiet curiosity… yeah, I was done for. Funny how you go to a wedding to celebrate someone else’s love, and end up meeting the reason you start believing in your own.

I hate weddings. The forced dancing, the awkward small talk, the chicken that tastes like it died for nothing. But my cousin was getting married, so I showed up—tie choking me, pretending to care about centerpieces. And then I saw her. At the kids’ table. No, seriously—she was sitting with a pack of flower girls, eating gummy bears and absolutely owning it. Said the adult seating was “too boring” and the flower girls had better snacks. I swear one of them handed her a juice box like she was their queen. I was done for before I even knew her name.

I was one table away from the girl every guy in the bar seemed to orbit. She had that rare kind of beauty that didn’t just catch your eye—it held it hostage. But what really got me wasn’t her face, or the way she laughed, or how her hair caught the light every time she turned someone down. It was what she said. One guy leaned in, all cologne and confidence, and she tilted her head sweetly before saying, “I do roadkill taxidermy for a living. You wanna come see my freezer?” He blinked. I nearly spit out my drink. The next guy? “I’m only here because my pet python is in surgery. I needed a distraction.” Another one got, “I’ve been sober for ten years… from dating men who wear boat shoes.” She wasn’t mean, just brilliantly weird. Like she was playing her own game while everyone else was stuck in theirs. And me? I sat there, quietly laughing into my glass, falling harder with every ridiculous line. I didn’t even mean to say anything, but when she finally caught me staring—and smirking—she raised an eyebrow.

Love Story Intro – From His Point of View: I hadn’t felt this kind of peace in a long time—like maybe I’d finally met someone who didn’t make me question myself every five minutes. She was smart, warm, funny without trying. The kind of girl who made even grocery store runs feel like dates. After a handful of weeks getting to know her, I asked her to be mine. She said yes with this soft smile that knocked the air out of my lungs. Everything was easy with her. Honest. We hadn’t slept together yet—it wasn’t like that. We were still learning each other, still building something real. Then one night, she sat me down with that same soft smile—but this time, it didn’t reach her eyes. She was pregnant. And it wasn’t mine. It was her ex’s. And just like that, everything real we’d been building turned into something way more complicated than I’d ever seen coming.

I was just helping my buddy move into his new house—sweaty, sore, and seriously reconsidering our friendship. I was halfway through dragging a mattress across the lawn when the front door next door swung open. She walked out holding a garden gnome like it was a glass of wine, squinted at me, and said something that made me laugh and nearly drop the mattress. And right then I knew: either she was crazy, or she was perfect. Possibly both.

It’s the summer after your college graduation. You’re at the beach with your friend group. You run into another group of recent graduates who are celebrating as well. You see a girl who catches your eye. You want to approach her, but her beauty is so intimidating.

Maria and her friends are on a beach trip and they get tickets to a a concert on the beach. It’s a fun show with lots of small artists. You’re one of the acts and while you’re performing, you lock eyes with the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. You keep telling yourself that you need to make sure you find her after the show.

It was Memorial Day weekend, and the lake was already humming with the familiar sounds of summer—boats slicing through the water, country music floating on the breeze, and the sizzle of burgers on the grill. I’d just finished tossing a cooler onto the dock when I heard the crunch of gravel up the drive. My little sister jumped out of the car first, calling my name like she hadn’t seen me in years. But I barely registered her because the passenger door opened, and out stepped someone I definitely hadn’t met yet. McKenna. Sun-kissed skin, legs for days, and a smile that made my throat dry up instantly. She looked around like she belonged there—like she was already a part of this place, this weekend, this…whatever the hell was about to happen. Our eyes met for a second too long. She bit her lip. I forgot how to breathe. And just like that, my plans for a quiet weekend went out the window.

Nashville mornings always carried a buzz—half caffeine, half dreams still fighting for daylight. I pulled into the studio parking lot with my usual blend of nerves and adrenaline, notebook balanced on the passenger seat, half-filled with lyrics scribbled during sleepless nights. Today wasn’t just another writing session. Today, I was meeting Megan Moroney. We’d crossed paths before—industry events, backstage nods, the occasional DM about a hook or harmony—but this was different. She’d asked for help finishing a song for her next album, something raw and a little vulnerable. The kind of song you don’t just write—you live. As I walked into the studio, the air changed. Megan was already there, perched on the worn leather couch with a guitar in her lap and that unmistakable fire in her eyes. She looked up, met my gaze, and smiled. Not the polite kind, but the kind that lingers.