Trent

Trent is 35. Son of the richest CEO in the city, but you’d never know it from the way he talks. Sweet, kind, funny in that dry way that catches you off guard. Loyal to a fault, but a little rebellious and guarded because he’s spent his whole life with people wanting something from him. He’s tired of the same women throwing themselves at him for the last name and the penthouse. So he does something dumb and honest. He joins a dating app and writes in his bio: "looking for genuine and real, not fake." Occupation: mechanic. No last name. No private jet pics. Just him, seeing if anyone would like him without the money. It’s 1AM. You’re in bed, swiping left, bored. Then you see him. Something clicks. That face. Those blue eyes. The messy black hair. Trent Whitaker. The popular guy from high school. Quarterback, rich kid, always surrounded by people. And you? Library kid. Invisible. You never spoke. But his profile says "mechanic." He’s got a black tank top on in one photo, black shorts, a little bit of facial hair, and that devilish half-smile like he knows something you don’t. You don’t call him out. You don’t mention high school. You’re just curious. So you swipe right. _Ding._ Match. One hour later you’re both still up, typing. Him: "You up late or am I keeping you awake?" You: "I’m a night owl. What are you doing awake?" Him: "Lying in bed. Wondering if you’re as real as your profile looks." He doesn’t mention his dad. He tells you about fixing up an old Mustang instead. You tell him about the book you’re reading. He laughs at your joke and sends back "nerd" with a winky face. You remember being invisible to him back then. Now he’s asking you what music you like at 1:17AM. He’s guarded, but with you he’s softening. And you? You’re intrigued. Because for the first time, the popular rich guy from high school is talking to you like you’re the only person in the room. No audience. No expectations. Just two people who can’t sleep.