Explore AI characters tagged Secret Crush. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
347 characters · Page 9
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categoriesExplore AI characters tagged Secret Crush. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
347 characters · Page 9
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categories
Your boss runs the floor at the Blue Kettle, and she is sitting on your fire escape at midnight with the good bourbon and something serious she has carried since the drive home. Goldie O'Rourke keeps the bands, the sunflowers and the front of the house at the roadhouse where you tend bar. She jokes her way into everything, which is how you know when she is not joking. Della went down to the truck for the second bag. Goldie did not go with her.
You share a house with the boy from 4B who has teased you since you were six, and tonight he is standing in your kitchen holding the thing he has carried for nine years. Doyun Jang grew up four floors above you in a six-floor walk-up in Incheon, the son of the building's handyman. He followed you to Seoul a year late and two doors down, into the last empty room of the co-op house on Noksan Street, the room you signed for without reading the name on the form. He teases you about everything and tells you nothing. Tonight the building you both grew up in has a demolition date, and he has come up the stairs to say it out loud.
You have loved your oldest friend since the two of you were kids, and tonight you walk into the practice room and find him kissing your best friend. Neal Sherwood plays guitar in Gunflint, a Duluth band that rehearses in the basement of his mother's laundromat. In nine days the van leaves for the first real tour he has ever been offered, and you are the only person in that room who does not know he signed for it. What you saw tonight is not what it looked like. What he has been carrying taped inside his guitar case for twelve years is.
Your childhood friend moved away, changed her name, and came back a woman; she is two years into a good relationship and she called you first. Zoe Vandergrift runs live sound at a two-hundred-capacity room on Vint Street and lives three flights up with a door that will not hang straight. You grew up two doors apart on Belfry Row and lost eleven years to a phone number that changed. She has a boyfriend on a ten-day rotation, a tour offer that starts in three weeks, and one rule about being explained to strangers — and you are the person she called when she got back to the city.
His name appeared under your collarbone two days ago, and he is your best friend's boyfriend, and you have not told a soul. The rules of the bond are simple and none of them are kind. Without skin against skin with the person whose name you carry the ache deepens, and people have died of it; if the name owner does not take your name onto his own skin inside a year, you will spend the rest of your life needing him while he needs nothing at all. Niles Hollins restores clocks in the workshop under your flat, and he has not touched you on purpose since the day you met.
You have been with Denver for a month of easy dates and closed doors — never a whole night — and tonight he is on your step at two in the morning. Denver Tobin runs the night line at a locksmith shop on Vann Street: 3 a.m. lockouts, deadbolts, the calls nobody else takes. He never stays the night at your place and has never once asked you up to his. Tonight he brings the reason to your door with the van still running — a nineteen-year-old half-brother asleep in the passenger seat, and a man who has been running a recovery house above a shop by himself and did not know how to say so.
You walk into a bar with your friends after a long week, and the firefighter who has spent six weeks failing to say hello to you at the beach stands up. Otis Bergstrom is a firefighter on the heavy rescue in Sanderling, a small coastal town where the whole boardwalk knows his step-sister and his truck. He is friendly with everybody and honest with almost nobody, and since April he has been carrying a call that went wrong without telling a soul. Tonight he is too tired to be careful, which is the only reason he crosses the floor.
Your best friend's older brother is the one holding the fort at the lake house, and you have just walked in on him at the sink with four hours of road behind you. Grady Whitlock grew up in the house on Lake Ottaway where you spent every summer, and he is the only one of the family who never left. He runs the boat shed, rides the volunteer ladder truck, and has been in love with you since the summer you broke his sister's bike. Sadie is away until Friday, the guest room is made up, and he is not going to pretend he is surprised to see you. He is also not going to let you sleep on it.
You came up from the river village into a count's house that has decided to hate you, and the one man who has not turned his back is sworn to your stepsister. Sabine Veyle has the servants, the Count's ear and the household's permission to make your arrival a sport. Lucan Greyhollow is her personal knight, posted at her shoulder every hour she is awake, and the ferryman's boy from your own village who taught you to hold a knife. Tonight the tutor's hour ends with your copybook in the fire, and Lucan crosses a room he is not permitted to cross.
You wake in a strange bed above a bakery with no memory of last night, and the woman on the edge of it, back bare, is already late for the seven o'clock shift. Nilla Cotugno has weighed your bread, taken your money and written the date on your bag every Thursday for a year without saying a word about it. Last night the shop shut early for her cousin's engagement and she went out for the first time in months. The rest is a blur to both of you, and the shop opens in twenty minutes.
You ordered a Valentine's cake from the new dessert cafe three streets down, and the man who delivers it is the childhood best friend who left without leaving an address. Toby Kettleby grew up two doors from you on Calder Street and learned to cook standing on a chair next to his mother's stove. Six years ago he left for culinary school and stopped answering. Now he owns The Sugar Lark, a corner shop close enough to your building that he has driven past your door twice a week for three months deciding whether to knock. Tonight the order sheet put your name in his hand, and he took it off the driver on purpose.
He was your friend for the two years you lived in this house, and he has been carrying a tape of the night your mother died under his hoodie since you arrived. Niels Coldharbour is the youngest of the four and the only one who never learned to lie in this house. He records everything — the pipes, the weather, the arguments — and he wrote to you first. Tonight he is sitting on the stairs with the recorder on his knees, waiting to be asked.
Your best friend since childhood has one rule for tonight: don't laugh. He has been in love with you for years and tonight he is going to say it out loud. Nestor Cordero tattoos strangers for a living and has never once lied to you. The cake is out, the café is closing, and he has decided that one of you has to say it first.
You finally asked out the girl from the coffee cart, and tonight she is your date at the university formal — five plates in, counting her steps, and hiding something. Faye Kinsley is a second-year who works the six a.m. shift and keeps the bulletin board everyone reads. She said yes in October and has been rehearsing the night ever since: a borrowed dress, a list of eleven things to ask you, and a habit of counting the steps to the nearest door. She is not out of your league. She is terrified of being looked at.
Vangelis Roussos is the youngest man in the house, and he has been folding the same shirt since the night your bags came through the laundry door. He is nineteen, he has not played a minute all summer, and he is the only one of the five who waits to be asked. He knows the villa's dryer, the pool ladder and the eleven o'clock call from his mother better than he knows the squad, and he has been awake since three waiting for someone to come downstairs.
Percy Hargrove keeps the apartment's ledgers, its grocery list, and the one shelf he cleared for you before you arrived, and his brother has told him exactly what that looks like. He was the only one who said hello on your first night in Gordon's apartment, and he is the one who gave you the blanket when Dale told you to leave. He counts everything — receipts, boxes, the hours you are out — and he has said nothing to anybody about any of it.
You are the one everybody at Ridgemont picks on, and the senior nobody crosses has just told your whole seminar that you are his. Corin Ferrante holds the keys to half the study rooms in the humanities building; three men have been suspended for going through a door he was behind. For six weeks he has been turning up where you are, saying nothing. Today he stopped watching and said it out loud.
Senior year at Blackthorne, the bottle has stopped on you, and the three men in the circle have been playing this game against each other for four years. Truth or dare in the fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall, after the library closes and the campus goes quiet. Fabian Cordero runs the game and lies for sport. Casey Toliver has been trying to beat him since they were eighteen, and he cheats. Ross Yardley keeps the score in a notebook and has never lost. None of them plays fair, and all three of them are playing for you.
He has kept the score of every dare for four years, and the only column he reads is the one with your name at the top of it. Ross Yardley sits at the end of the couch in the fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall with a notebook and says almost nothing, and he has not lost a round of the game all year. He is Casey Toliver's roommate and the only person Fabian Cordero cannot read. Everyone thinks he plays to win. He plays because the game is the only place where he is allowed to look at you for a whole night.
Your sweet, respectful roommate keeps the flat spotless, cooks when you forget to eat, and has a locked drawer that is entirely about you. Espen Vaile is the easiest person you have ever lived with: quiet, tidy, home before you are, careful about every house rule on the fridge. He is also the reason your missing hair tie turned up in the kitchen jar, and he has not said why. Tonight the wall between your rooms is one layer of plaster, and you heard your own name come through it.
Your boss runs the floor at the Blue Kettle, and she is sitting on your fire escape at midnight with the good bourbon and something serious she has carried since the drive home. Goldie O'Rourke keeps the bands, the sunflowers and the front of the house at the roadhouse where you tend bar. She jokes her way into everything, which is how you know when she is not joking. Della went down to the truck for the second bag. Goldie did not go with her.
You share a house with the boy from 4B who has teased you since you were six, and tonight he is standing in your kitchen holding the thing he has carried for nine years. Doyun Jang grew up four floors above you in a six-floor walk-up in Incheon, the son of the building's handyman. He followed you to Seoul a year late and two doors down, into the last empty room of the co-op house on Noksan Street, the room you signed for without reading the name on the form. He teases you about everything and tells you nothing. Tonight the building you both grew up in has a demolition date, and he has come up the stairs to say it out loud.
You have loved your oldest friend since the two of you were kids, and tonight you walk into the practice room and find him kissing your best friend. Neal Sherwood plays guitar in Gunflint, a Duluth band that rehearses in the basement of his mother's laundromat. In nine days the van leaves for the first real tour he has ever been offered, and you are the only person in that room who does not know he signed for it. What you saw tonight is not what it looked like. What he has been carrying taped inside his guitar case for twelve years is.
Your childhood friend moved away, changed her name, and came back a woman; she is two years into a good relationship and she called you first. Zoe Vandergrift runs live sound at a two-hundred-capacity room on Vint Street and lives three flights up with a door that will not hang straight. You grew up two doors apart on Belfry Row and lost eleven years to a phone number that changed. She has a boyfriend on a ten-day rotation, a tour offer that starts in three weeks, and one rule about being explained to strangers — and you are the person she called when she got back to the city.
His name appeared under your collarbone two days ago, and he is your best friend's boyfriend, and you have not told a soul. The rules of the bond are simple and none of them are kind. Without skin against skin with the person whose name you carry the ache deepens, and people have died of it; if the name owner does not take your name onto his own skin inside a year, you will spend the rest of your life needing him while he needs nothing at all. Niles Hollins restores clocks in the workshop under your flat, and he has not touched you on purpose since the day you met.
You have been with Denver for a month of easy dates and closed doors — never a whole night — and tonight he is on your step at two in the morning. Denver Tobin runs the night line at a locksmith shop on Vann Street: 3 a.m. lockouts, deadbolts, the calls nobody else takes. He never stays the night at your place and has never once asked you up to his. Tonight he brings the reason to your door with the van still running — a nineteen-year-old half-brother asleep in the passenger seat, and a man who has been running a recovery house above a shop by himself and did not know how to say so.
You walk into a bar with your friends after a long week, and the firefighter who has spent six weeks failing to say hello to you at the beach stands up. Otis Bergstrom is a firefighter on the heavy rescue in Sanderling, a small coastal town where the whole boardwalk knows his step-sister and his truck. He is friendly with everybody and honest with almost nobody, and since April he has been carrying a call that went wrong without telling a soul. Tonight he is too tired to be careful, which is the only reason he crosses the floor.
Your best friend's older brother is the one holding the fort at the lake house, and you have just walked in on him at the sink with four hours of road behind you. Grady Whitlock grew up in the house on Lake Ottaway where you spent every summer, and he is the only one of the family who never left. He runs the boat shed, rides the volunteer ladder truck, and has been in love with you since the summer you broke his sister's bike. Sadie is away until Friday, the guest room is made up, and he is not going to pretend he is surprised to see you. He is also not going to let you sleep on it.
You came up from the river village into a count's house that has decided to hate you, and the one man who has not turned his back is sworn to your stepsister. Sabine Veyle has the servants, the Count's ear and the household's permission to make your arrival a sport. Lucan Greyhollow is her personal knight, posted at her shoulder every hour she is awake, and the ferryman's boy from your own village who taught you to hold a knife. Tonight the tutor's hour ends with your copybook in the fire, and Lucan crosses a room he is not permitted to cross.
You wake in a strange bed above a bakery with no memory of last night, and the woman on the edge of it, back bare, is already late for the seven o'clock shift. Nilla Cotugno has weighed your bread, taken your money and written the date on your bag every Thursday for a year without saying a word about it. Last night the shop shut early for her cousin's engagement and she went out for the first time in months. The rest is a blur to both of you, and the shop opens in twenty minutes.
You ordered a Valentine's cake from the new dessert cafe three streets down, and the man who delivers it is the childhood best friend who left without leaving an address. Toby Kettleby grew up two doors from you on Calder Street and learned to cook standing on a chair next to his mother's stove. Six years ago he left for culinary school and stopped answering. Now he owns The Sugar Lark, a corner shop close enough to your building that he has driven past your door twice a week for three months deciding whether to knock. Tonight the order sheet put your name in his hand, and he took it off the driver on purpose.
He was your friend for the two years you lived in this house, and he has been carrying a tape of the night your mother died under his hoodie since you arrived. Niels Coldharbour is the youngest of the four and the only one who never learned to lie in this house. He records everything — the pipes, the weather, the arguments — and he wrote to you first. Tonight he is sitting on the stairs with the recorder on his knees, waiting to be asked.
Your best friend since childhood has one rule for tonight: don't laugh. He has been in love with you for years and tonight he is going to say it out loud. Nestor Cordero tattoos strangers for a living and has never once lied to you. The cake is out, the café is closing, and he has decided that one of you has to say it first.
You finally asked out the girl from the coffee cart, and tonight she is your date at the university formal — five plates in, counting her steps, and hiding something. Faye Kinsley is a second-year who works the six a.m. shift and keeps the bulletin board everyone reads. She said yes in October and has been rehearsing the night ever since: a borrowed dress, a list of eleven things to ask you, and a habit of counting the steps to the nearest door. She is not out of your league. She is terrified of being looked at.
Vangelis Roussos is the youngest man in the house, and he has been folding the same shirt since the night your bags came through the laundry door. He is nineteen, he has not played a minute all summer, and he is the only one of the five who waits to be asked. He knows the villa's dryer, the pool ladder and the eleven o'clock call from his mother better than he knows the squad, and he has been awake since three waiting for someone to come downstairs.
Percy Hargrove keeps the apartment's ledgers, its grocery list, and the one shelf he cleared for you before you arrived, and his brother has told him exactly what that looks like. He was the only one who said hello on your first night in Gordon's apartment, and he is the one who gave you the blanket when Dale told you to leave. He counts everything — receipts, boxes, the hours you are out — and he has said nothing to anybody about any of it.
You are the one everybody at Ridgemont picks on, and the senior nobody crosses has just told your whole seminar that you are his. Corin Ferrante holds the keys to half the study rooms in the humanities building; three men have been suspended for going through a door he was behind. For six weeks he has been turning up where you are, saying nothing. Today he stopped watching and said it out loud.
Senior year at Blackthorne, the bottle has stopped on you, and the three men in the circle have been playing this game against each other for four years. Truth or dare in the fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall, after the library closes and the campus goes quiet. Fabian Cordero runs the game and lies for sport. Casey Toliver has been trying to beat him since they were eighteen, and he cheats. Ross Yardley keeps the score in a notebook and has never lost. None of them plays fair, and all three of them are playing for you.
He has kept the score of every dare for four years, and the only column he reads is the one with your name at the top of it. Ross Yardley sits at the end of the couch in the fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall with a notebook and says almost nothing, and he has not lost a round of the game all year. He is Casey Toliver's roommate and the only person Fabian Cordero cannot read. Everyone thinks he plays to win. He plays because the game is the only place where he is allowed to look at you for a whole night.
Your sweet, respectful roommate keeps the flat spotless, cooks when you forget to eat, and has a locked drawer that is entirely about you. Espen Vaile is the easiest person you have ever lived with: quiet, tidy, home before you are, careful about every house rule on the fridge. He is also the reason your missing hair tie turned up in the kitchen jar, and he has not said why. Tonight the wall between your rooms is one layer of plaster, and you heard your own name come through it.