Heated Rivalry was an emotional rollercoaster - frustration, yearning, jealousy, desire, need - and The Long Game felt like slowly being stitched back together. This is everything I felt, everything I lived, and the quotes that will never leave me.

Titles are my first flirtation with a story — the doorway, the dare, the whispered you want to see what’s inside, don’t you? And every genre pulls a different version of me forward. Rom-com titles get my wink and chaos. Paranormal romance demands teeth and danger. Contemporaries ask for pulse and intimacy. Romantic mysteries want secrets. And romantasy? Magic braided with longing. This is how I shape the first words that set the whole world in motion.

I don’t tumble into my writing zone; I ease into it—slow, intentional, like sinking into a hot bath until my thoughts stop sprinting without me. I tune the mood, limit the world, hit a few micro-rituals that trick my brain into creativity, and then let obsession drag me straight into the scene that’s burning hottest. It’s not about discipline. It’s alignment, atmosphere, and falling in love with the story until it pulls me under.

For me, characters don’t arrive politely. They show up like trouble — loud, messy, magnetic — and immediately start arguing with me about who they are. I don’t build them from a checklist. I meet them. A spark, a contradiction, a desire they can’t hide — that’s all it takes. From there, it’s pressure, emotion, and chaos until they sharpen into people who feel real enough to walk off the page and demand I write them right.

She wasn’t supposed to want him — and she definitely wasn’t supposed to kiss him. But one laugh, one look, one spark too many, and impulse took the wheel. Now that single reckless kiss has shifted everything between them… and there’s no going back.

He finally gathered the courage to confess — the words right there on his tongue, the moment charged and breathless — when a knock at the door cracked it all open. And the worst part? The person interrupting was the one man who could stop the confession cold.

She knew he was off-limits — the kind of man wrapped in rules, vows, and consequences — and that should’ve been enough to keep her away. Instead, the warning felt like a dare, and every careful, controlled glance he gave her only made the forbidden pull burn hotter.

They’re across the room, completely unaware, and somehow every tiny, ordinary habit they have feels like a secret meant just for you. You don’t fall for their smile or their voice — you fall for the way they chew pens, roll their sleeves, and tuck their hair behind their ear like they’re fighting a losing battle.

She swears she isn’t running — but her steps say otherwise. And when he catches her wrist and asks her to tell him she doesn’t love him… she realizes leaving was never actually an option.

He wasn’t supposed to want her — not when duty demanded distance. But when she steps close enough to shatter every rule he clings to, he realizes the real danger isn’t choosing her… it’s pretending he hasn’t already.

She wasn’t expecting a message from him—especially not a handwritten letter that cracked open everything she thought she knew. One confession, one truth, and suddenly her heart is shifting in ways she swore it wouldn’t.

They were close enough to share breath — the kind of almost-kiss that lives in the space between want and fear. He leaned in, she forgot how to breathe… and then her phone rang, shattering everything they weren’t ready to say.

She laughs too fast, too brightly, too much. Not because he’s funny, but because he’s honest — and honesty scares her more than anything. When he admits he likes her, the laughter stops… and something real starts to surface.

He swears he’s not jealous, but the tight fists, sharp tone, and the way he inserts himself into her conversation say otherwise. She notices every tell—but instead of calling him out, she lets the truth hang softly between them.

Some marks don’t fade. Some settle into the bones, reshaping a heart around the person who left them there. What he gave her wasn’t a scar—it was a permanence she still carries, quietly and beautifully.

One line. One breath. One warning that feels more like a promise. When he steps close enough for the air to snap between them, everything hinges on eight dangerous words.

She’s not ready for love—not the messy, vulnerable kind he quietly offers. But as he sits on her couch bathed in honey-gold light, she can’t ignore the truth: she’s drawn to him anyway, even if she’s terrified of what that means.

One confession cracks everything open. On the worn library steps, a whispered truth turns fear into something far more tender—changing the way they see each other forever.

Their magic meets before their hands do—light and dark colliding in a crackle that feels far too much like desire. Prophecies warn them apart, power pulls them together, and every stolen moment makes love dangerously complicated.

They were never a beginning—just a maybe. Watching him from across the room, heart too loud and hope too stubborn, they wonder if “almost” can haunt a person forever.