I have been digging through old stories lately. Not metaphorically digging — actual digital archaeology. Folders inside folders inside folders on backup drives with names like “writing stuff 2014” and “stories maybe final.” The kind of organizational system that would make a librarian weep.

Here’s the thing about finding stories you wrote ten years ago: some of them you remember. You remember the premise, the characters, the scene you were really proud of. And some of them you don’t remember at all. Not even a little. I found a 10,000+ word story that I have absolutely no memory of writing. I read it like it was written by a stranger. A stranger who had my exact taste in sentence structure and apparently my exact inability to end a chapter without a cliffhanger.

And it was good. Not polished, not ready for anything, but the idea was solid. The bones were there. That’s a weird feeling — being impressed by yourself in a way that feels like being impressed by someone else. Like finding out your sleepwalking self has been taking night classes.

I was mostly writing sci-fi back then. Superhero stories. Fantasy — and not your standard elves-and-swords fantasy, either. I had dragons as main characters. Not dragon riders. Not people who befriend dragons. The dragons were the protagonists. Looking back at those I still think that’s a cool idea. The execution needed work. The execution of everything needed work. But the ambition was there.

I also went back and reread my first finished novel, which I completed around 2014. That was a different kind of experience. Because I do remember that one. I remember being proud of it. I remember thinking it was pretty good. And reading it now I can see every single mistake I made, which means I can see how much I’ve learned since then. The pacing was off in the middle. The dialogue was trying too hard in places. There were scenes that existed because I thought they were cool, not because the story needed them.

But you know what else I noticed? In every single one of these stories — the sci-fi, the superhero stuff, the dragon fantasy, the finished novel — there was romance. Not front and center. Not the point. But it was always there, sneaking in from the side like a cat who wasn’t invited into the room but has somehow ended up on your lap anyway.

The sci-fi story had two characters who clearly had feelings for each other that I never resolved. The superhero story had a relationship that was doing more emotional heavy lifting than the actual plot. The dragon story — the one with dragons as main characters — had a love story woven through it that was honestly the best part. And my novel? The relationship between the two leads was the thing that worked. The rest was messy. The romance was solid.

I would never have called myself a romance writer back then. Not in a million years. I was writing sci-fi. I was writing fantasy. I was writing genre fiction with cool premises and action and weird worldbuilding. But the thing I kept accidentally writing well was the part where two people figure out how they feel about each other. Every time.

Sarah has been reading some of my current work, and she’s been reading some of the old stuff too. Having someone else’s eyes on it — especially someone who knows me well enough to recognize the patterns I can’t see — has been helpful. She didn’t say “you know these are all romance novels.” She didn’t have to. I got there on my own, eventually.

So I’ve been spending time editing. Taking the stories that have strong bones and trying to make them match what I know now about craft. Tightening dialogue, cutting the scenes that don’t earn their place, actually resolving the emotional arcs I used to leave dangling. It’s satisfying in a way I didn’t expect. Like renovation instead of new construction. The foundation is already there. I just need to fix the plumbing and maybe knock out a wall.

And here’s where it gets interesting: I’m starting something new. A romance novel. On purpose, this time. Not a sci-fi story that happens to have romance. Not a fantasy where the love story sneaks in uninvited. An actual, intentional romance novel. Royalty meets scientist. Fauxmance. The whole deal.

Previously I would never have considered it. I would have said romance isn’t my genre, I write other things, I’m a sci-fi guy. But I’ve read the evidence. I’ve been writing romance for over a decade. I just didn’t know what to call it.

Turns out the genre found me a long time ago. I’m just finally introducing myself.