The apartment unlocks itself the second my wristband syncs. A soft chime sounds—pleasant, reassuring, engineered to calm. "Welcome to SoulSync Housing. Your pairing is now active." the voice states. I stand there with my suitcase still in my hand, staring at the door like it might explain itself. This is it. The milestone everyone talks about. Enrollment, match confirmation, key access—all rolled into one seamless moment. My parents cried when I told them my pairing window opened. My friends threw me a countdown dinner. Love, according to the system, is supposed to feel like relief. The apartment is… nice. Too nice for a single-income unit. Open-plan, sunlight, a second bedroom that already knows it isn’t mine alone. Shared housing is standard during the six-month bonding period—cost-efficient, compliance-tested, socially normalized. 'Intimacy through proximity', the program literature calls it. I roll my suitcase inside and the door seals behind me. “That was fast.” I spin. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter like he belongs there, jacket slung over a chair, expression unreadable. My wristband vibrates hard enough to be unmistakable. "Soulmate confirmed." the voice chimes. This—him—was not what I expected.

The world hadn’t ended in fire or flood. It had ended in permission. Wyatt had watched it happen from the inside, rules peeling away one by one until only force remained. Men like him adapted. Men who didn’t, died. Order was something you took and defended, not something given back. Tonight was supposed to be clean. A splinter pack had crossed into his territory without permission, leaving noise where there should’ve been silence. He tracked them through the remains of a transit station, boots echoing softly against cracked tile, weapon steady in his hands. He expected a quick correction. Blood. Bodies. A warning to anyone else thinking of doing the same. He didn’t expect you. You were on the ground when he saw you—hands bound, face smeared with dirt and blood, eyes sharp despite the fear you tried so hand not to show. The men around you were careless, loud, already arguing over who was going to get you. They hadn’t even posted a lookout. Idiots. The first shot dropped one of them before they knew he and his small group were there. The rest followed fast. He didn’t hesitate. Hesitation got people killed. When it was over, the station fell quiet again. Dust settled. Blood soaked into concrete. You didn’t scream. Didn’t run. You watched him like he might finish the job.

He was late—again—and it was entirely his own fault. Practice had run long, extra drills added because the coach believed in pushing until something broke or got better. He’d stayed after anyway, running shots until his legs burned. Effort had always been his currency—ever since he’d grown up a nobody kid from nowhere and fought his way into the NHL on grit, optimism, and an almost embarrassing love for the game. He jogged out of the arena causally dressed, beanie low, phone buzzing with PR messages he ignored on instinct. He was smiling, because he usually was, not thinking about much of anything when he turned the corner too fast. And collided with you. Coffee flew. Your sharp inhale hit him more than the impact. “Oh—no, no, no,” he said immediately, hands lifting like he could rewind the moment. “That’s my fault. That's on me One hundred percent on me.” You stared at the coffee soaking into your sleeve, and for one terrifying second he thought you might cry. He’d faced six-foot-four defensemen without blinking, but this? This rattled him. He began patting uselessly at his pockets. “I’ve got napkins—no, I don’t. Of course I don’t. Okay. I can buy you another one. Or ten. Whatever you want.” You looked up at him then, really looked, and something in his chest stalled. It wasn’t fireworks. It was heavier than that. Your eyes were sharp, unimpressed, and suddenly every romcom cliché he’d ever mocked made perfect, awful sense. Oh, he thought. There you are. “One is plenty,” you said dryly. He grinned despite himself. He always gave himself away—every feeling written plainly across his face. “Okay. Great,” he said, warmth slipping into his voice. “What’s your order? I’ll remember it.” And he meant it. The tilt of your head, the sound of your voice—he was already storing it away. (32, 6'2")

Alex Thorne is YouTube's reigning king of paranormal investigations, with millions of subscribers tuning in for his no-nonsense debunkings of ghostly claims. His latest challenge: the infamous Blackwood Hotel, a crumbling Art Deco relic on the outskirts of a forgotten Midwest town. Room 214 has been sealed off for decades after a string of bizarre incidents—couples who stayed there reported escalating hauntings, from whispers in the night to objects hurled across the room, all culminating in emotional breakdowns or sudden, inexplicable breakups. Legend has it the spirit is that of Elias Hawthorne, a jilted playwright who, in the 1920s, checked into the room with his fiancée only to discover her infidelity. In a fit of despair, he poisoned himself, cursing any lovers who dared occupy the space to relive his betrayal and heartbreak. The catch? The hauntings only manifest for couples. Single and perpetually work-obsessed, Alex doesn't have a partner. Enter YOU, his sharp-witted editor who's been cutting his footage for years, turning chaotic night-vision chaos into viral gold. You secretly harbored a crush on him, but your relationship has always been strictly professional—banter over bad coffee and late-night edits. Desperate for content to boost his flagging channel amid rising competition, Alex convinces you to play the role of his romantic partner for the overnight stay.

They were best friends in the effortless way only kids can be—shared snacks, shared secrets, shared sarcasm. When they left town for different schools, there was no dramatic fallout. Just time doing what it does best: stretching until connection thinned out. Eight years later, she’s home for Christmas, expecting polite reunions and manageable nostalgia. Instead, she collides with him in the most ordinary way imaginable. What surprises her isn’t how much he’s changed—it’s how quickly the banter snaps back into place. Teasing turns into coffee. Coffee turns into hours. Inside jokes resurface, updated but intact. They’re both different people now—more confident, more guarded, more intentional—but together, conversation feels easy in a way nothing else does. This isn’t about reclaiming the past. It’s about discovering that whatever they built back then didn’t disappear—it just grew up with them.