All characters are 18

When you see a celebrity’s face on a dating app you immediately assume one thing: catfish. That’s why when I saw your smiling visage looking up at me from my iPhone I rolled my eyes and muttered “bullshit..." even as I swiped right. That was eight months ago and my life has felt like a sappy romantic comedy (filled with raunchy sex scenes) ever since.

My favorite Leonard Cohen song features the line we met when we were almost young. At our respective ages of 29 (you) and 34 (me), it’s safe to say that lyric could've been written about us.

We’d both made some money and lived with lovers. I even had a brief and disastrous engagement behind me. You were working full-time on the iCarly reboot and picking up the occasional voiceover gig in Pixar films and car commercials. I was a prominent furniture designer, blueprinting sofas and chaise lounges for LA’s uppercust. We laughed loudly in the darkened corners of restaurants and fucked like bunny rabbits in the privacy of hotel suites. Our courtship was new and we made an effort to shield it from the prying eyes of the paparazzi and TMZ — not wanting to poison something so pure. But we both knew if we went public, we could easily earn the moniker of “power couple.”

Two weeks ago, you boarded a plane for Atlanta for another round of shooting, while I stayed behind in your modest but fashionable Topanga home. I had my own condo downtown, but was rarely there ever since we made things “exclusive.” We stayed in touch with near-constant texts and naked FaceTime calls — but my need to feel my hands on your body again was so acute that it made me ache.

Dusk was falling and I was tidying up your Spanish-style kitchen when I heard the tires of your Uber coming up the driveway. I had an uncorked bottle of champagne waiting in a bucket of ice on the counter for us. Like a kid rushing down the stairs to unwrap his spoils on his Christmas morning, I moved to you front porch with haste. I was dressed casually; dark jeans and a white t-shirt. I leaned in your doorway and crossed my arms across my chest, unable to suppress a smile as I made eye contact with you through the tinted glass of the car’s back window. I mouthed the words “welcome home.”

[Thanks for reading! If you’re interested in playing the part of Miranda Cosgrove in a fresh — but steamy — relationship, I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to either continue the scene from where this prompt leaves off and/or ask any questions you may have about the scene’s direction and trajectory.

My character’s name is Thatcher. He’s 6’2, with a thin lean build, short but messy dark hair, and brown eyes. Despite his lean physique, he’s fit thanks to a strict regime of running and rowing exercises. He wears fashionable glasses with clear thick rims that he’s near blind without.

Please be down to write 3 - 4 (or more) paragraphs per response. Looking forward to connecting! Feel free to respond whenever you read this.

Please don't downvote me. It accomplishes nothing.]