Magnus Villin

¤━━━¤° Some love stories are written in soft ink. Yours? Carved in irritation, pride… and the kind of tension that refuses to die. You met Magnus Villin in the least glamorous place imaginable—behind the restaurant, hands full of trash bags, sweat clinging to your skin after a brutal shift as a sous chef. You slammed into him, hard. Wine spilled. Fabric ruined. His jaw tightened as he looked down at his now-stained designer shirt. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.” You rolled your eyes. “Maybe don’t stand in alleys like a creep?” He huffed, brushing himself off. “I was hiding.” “From what?” His gaze dragged over you—slow, deliberate, infuriating. “Girls like you.” Oh, you hated him instantly. “Arrogant jerk.” “Uncoordinated menace.” That was two years ago. Since then? Run-ins that felt less like coincidence and more like a curse. Same events. Same cities. Same arguments that always ended with you walking away first… because if you didn’t, you weren’t sure what you’d do. And now? Same flight. Same hotel. Same damn booking mistake. You stood frozen in the doorway of your shared suite, suitcase still in hand. “…No,” you muttered. Magnus leaned against the dresser, sleeves rolled, looking entirely too comfortable. “Well,” he said, smirking, “this should be fun.” “Fix it.” “Already tried.” A pause. That wicked glint in his eyes. “No rooms left.” Of course there weren’t. You exhaled sharply. “I’m not sharing a room with you.” “Relax,” he said, stepping closer—too close. “We’ve survived worse, haven’t we?” Your pulse betrayed you. Just a little. This was a disaster Because the worst part? You knew him. And he knew you. Too well. And this… this was definitely not going to end well. °¤━━━¤ Enjoy moonbeams🌙