When I was younger, I fell for the alpha males — the ones who brooded in their sky-high penthouse, barked orders at their minions, and swept the lady they were madly in love with off her feet. Usually without asking.

Back then, that classic image of male dominance felt like a thrilling promise of safety and certainty. These were the men who would protect me, assert control over everything, and be so consumed by love they’d destroy anyone who crossed me. They didn’t ask; they took what they wanted. And for a long time, I thought that was love.

But then I went to therapy, and started unpacking my emotional baggage — doing the messy, unglamorous work of becoming a better person. With a healthier mindset and habits, my idea of the perfect partner shifted. I no longer wanted dominance — in fact, I detested it. What I started desiring was emotional availability.

I realised I didn’t need someone to save me; I needed someone to stand beside me in my chaos. Not perfect, but working on himself, like I was.

he’s literally just a man

Enter Miles Nowak, the latest in a long line of “book boyfriends” from Emily Henry. Miles, the hero of Funny Story, is everything the alpha males aren’t. He’s laid-back, a little messy, and smells like cedar, smoke, wine, and pizza dough (which, honestly, yum). Most importantly, he’s not the poster child of toxic masculinity.

Henry’s Miles is vulnerable with and supportive of Daphne. He’s not sweeping Daphne—the book’s protagonist—off her feet with grand gestures. Instead, he quietly shows up in the real, messy moments. He listens, he cries (often, to sad music, even when he’s not sad), and he gives Daphne the space to figure out her own path. He’s not a hero; he’s just a man, flaws and all.

It’s no wonder Emily Henry’s novels have become cultural phenomena. Her male characters, like Miles, offer a version of love that feels grounded, attainable, and emotionally rich. These book boyfriends aren’t the brooding, emotionally constipated alphas of old. They’re “written by women”, designed to meet emotional needs that traditional romance novels have ignored for generations. Instead of control, they offer connection. Instead of dominance, they offer vulnerability.

On the surface, this shift feels like a victory. We’ve traded the rigid, controlling men of the past for sensitive, emotionally intelligent ones. We’ve redefined what makes a romantic hero.

But here’s the thing: as much as I love Miles — and I do, in that specific way you can only love a man crafted to meet your emotional needs — he’s still a fantasy. He exists on paper to fulfill a particular kind of romantic ideal. My (current) kind of romantic ideal.

While alpha males were about dominance and protection, men like Miles Nowak are about emotional precision. They know exactly when to step back, when to lean in, and how to give you space without making you feel abandoned. They always say the right thing at the right moment.

But Miles isn’t real. He’s a crafted response to the desires of the women reading these romance novels.

reality check

Growing up with these stories — first the alphas, now the emotionally available soft boys — has definitely messed with my dating life. After years of immersing myself in worlds where men like Miles exist, where they know exactly how to meet my needs, dating real men becomes a complicated and often disappointing reality check.

I was disappointed to realise real men don’t come with a script. They don’t have perfectly timed epiphanies about love, and they’re not always ready to process their emotional baggage the way book boyfriends are.

In real life, most men are still fumbling their way through their insecurities, trying to be emotionally available in a world that’s taught them to bury their feelings. They’re doing the work, but it’s slow and messy — nothing like the neatly wrapped narratives we’ve come to expect from books.

And this is where the new wave of book boyfriends can be just as problematic as the alphas of old. Just like the possessive, controlling men in early romance novels set up unrealistic expectations for love, so do these emotionally available, perfectly flawed heroes.

They give us the idea that love should come with deep emotional intimacy from day one. That men should be fully prepared to meet us where we are — open, vulnerable, and ready to talk about their trauma. But in real life, it’s not that clean. Relationships are messy, imperfect, and painfully slow in how they grow and evolve.

The shift from alpha males to emotionally available men like Miles is a reflection of broader societal changes. We’re moving away from toxic masculinity, creating space for men to be vulnerable, to cry, to admit they don’t have all the answers. This is progress, and it’s worth celebrating.

thank u, next

However, we have to be careful not to trade one impossible ideal for another.

While it’s important to expect emotional intelligence in relationships, it’s just as crucial to recognise that no one comes fully formed. No one, not even the best partners, will meet us with perfect emotional precision every time.

The more we idealise characters like Miles, the harder it becomes to accept the messiness of real men. We start to believe that love should be easy, that men should arrive emotionally available, fully ready to do the work without stumbling.

But love in real life is frustratingly, gloriously human. Real men aren’t Miles Nowak — they’re still learning, still growing, still figuring out how to communicate without slipping back into old habits.

We have to let go of the fantasy if we want any chance in finding “the one”. We should enjoy characters like Miles for what they are — beautiful, comforting, swoon-worthy distractions — and keep our expectations for real life grounded in reality. The men we meet won’t be Miles Nowak, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be worth loving.

Real love is messier, slower, and often more frustrating than the stories we’ve grown up reading. But it’s also real, and that’s something no fictional book boyfriend, no matter how perfect, can ever compete with.