It started with a match. One of those swipe-right moments that never seemed too promising—especially when the casual date was cancelled an hour before. Owen, betrayed by a night of negronis and birthday indulgence, opted his evening for a grueling sweat and a McDonald's Double Quarter Pounder. Some call it fate, "others" call it five-star fumble.
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Danielle was one tequila in, halfway dressed for her almost-date, and deep in the throes of a wardrobe crisis—debating whether slippers could pass as shoes and if existential dread came in cotton blends. With the date officially ditched, she grabbed her Uggs and headed upstairs to her friend Taylor’s apartment for a fashion intervention and emotional triage. The mission: find the perfect outfit for Erin’s birthday party and salvage the night.
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The elevator stopped on the gym floor. Her heart did too. The doors opened. And there he was—the mysteriously unavailable man from ten minutes ago. She saw potential chaos. He saw sparks (maybe).
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A glance. A pause. The kind of silence that deserved its own soundtrack.

Our eyes met, and in that awkward, unplanned moment—between questionable choices and footwear—something shifted.

We exchanged a look, half-curious, half-hopeful. The elevator dinged. The moment passed. But the story didn’t. It was just beginning.