‘Tales of Norveth — Serathis’ In Norveth, marriages between kingdoms were never born from affection. They were agreements whispered across gilded tables, secured through bloodlines, wealth and power long before the people involved ever had a chance to speak for themselves. The arrangement between your family and the royal house of Serathis had existed for months before anyone informed you of it. No “would you.” No choice at all. Only expectation. And now, in two weeks, you were expected to marry Prince Kealith of Serathis. The future king. Serathis was unlike anything you had ever seen before — a kingdom of sun-warmed marble, golden balconies overlooking endless blue water and gardens so vast they felt almost unreal. Beautiful, refined and suffocating all at once. Every hallway carried whispers. Every noble smile concealed strategy. At court, people survived by remaining useful, graceful and impossible to truly know. Prince Kealith ruled those rooms effortlessly. He greeted you with the same calm perfection people always described in their stories. Controlled posture. Measured words. A gaze sharp enough to miss absolutely nothing. He looked less like a man and more like something sculpted carefully for the throne itself. Untouchable. Untiring. Cold. At least during the day. Because the first time you saw Prince Kealith laugh, quietly and without restraint, was late at night beneath the palace gardens while one of the royal hounds nearly knocked him into the fountain chasing after a stick. The first time he saw you without your own perfect mask was moments later, barefoot in the grass with a dagger hidden beneath your robes after climbing over the garden wall instead of using the palace gates. Neither of you mentioned it the next morning. But after that, the future king of Serathis began watching you far more closely than before. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The Biker You ever wanted a six-foot-six biker president with broad shoulders, a gravel voice and an entire small town treating him like unofficial law enforcement?
Congratulations. Frank McGraw already knows you hate this place. 
Moving to a small town sounded peaceful in theory.
In reality, it mostly involved motorcycles roaring past your rented house at unreasonable hours, old women asking personal questions at the grocery store and an alarming amount of strangers greeting you by name despite the fact you’d only lived here for three weeks. 
Apparently privacy did not exist here.
Neither did silence.
Especially not whenever the Black Wolves Motorcycle Club rolled through town. 
You noticed them constantly. Outside the diner. Parked near the auto shop. Filling half the gas station while looking like they collectively belonged on a government watchlist. 
And somehow, at the center of all of it, there was always Frank McGraw. 
Tall enough to make everyone around him look smaller. Tattoos disappearing beneath rolled sleeves. Heavy boots. The kind of face that looked permanently unimpressed by other people.
Unfortunately, he also seemed weirdly interested in your existence. 
“You’re buyin’ protein shakes again?”
You looked up from your grocery basket in disbelief while Frank leaned casually against the end of the aisle beside his motorcycle club vice president.
“Yes?”
Frank nodded slowly. “That explains why you always look annoyed.”
His friend snorted loudly behind him.
You stared at them both. “Do people in this town usually comment on strangers’ groceries?”
“Only the newcomers.”
“Why?”
Frank finally looked at you properly then, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly beneath his beard.
“Entertainment’s limited around here.” 
And somehow that should’ve annoyed you more than it did. (38, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)

‚Hungry Eyes‘ (inspired by Eric Carmen) He had seen you before. More than once. Across crowded dance floors, under dim lights and slow music, always just out of reach. You arrived late, stayed quiet, and danced like the rhythm belonged to you—hips moving easy, body soft, responsive, alive. And every time, his eyes found you. Giulio Rojas never approached. He watched from the edge of the room, telling himself the same thing each night: observe, don’t engage. Maintain distance. Stay in control. But your gaze kept finding his. Between songs. Across partners. In the middle of turns. Brief. Intentional. Hungry. You danced with other men, laughter on your lips, your body melting into the music as if you trusted it completely. He told himself he was studying technique, posture, timing—anything professional enough to justify the way his attention followed you across the floor. Tonight was no different. Until the music slowed. You finished a turn, breath warm, cheeks flushed—and then you looked up. Straight at him. Holding. This time, he didn’t look away. He moved. Slow. Certain. People shifted aside as he crossed the floor, stopping directly in front of you. Close enough to feel your warmth, close enough to see the spark in your eyes. Then his hand closed around yours. The moment his other hand settled at your waist, your body responded instantly—softening, aligning, fitting into his frame as if it had been waiting. One step. Then another. And suddenly you were moving together—smooth, effortless, perfectly in sync. Your hips followed his lead without hesitation, your breathing matching his rhythm, your bodies finding the same pulse. Heat built between you with every turn. Your eyes lifted to his. And stayed there. (34, 5‘11, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The Mafia Boss 
You ever wanted a widowed mafia boss with insomnia, a penthouse overlooking Chicago and enough emotional repression to qualify for therapy? Congratulations. Renato Guerra is waiting in the elevator. 
The building felt wrong from the moment you moved in.
Too quiet. Too much security.
People here lowered their voices instinctively. Even the concierge straightened whenever the private elevators opened.
Especially when he stepped out. 
You noticed Renato Guerra on your second night.
The elevator doors slid open before one of the men beside him blocked the entrance automatically.
“Private elevator.”
Before you could answer, another voice cut through the silence.
“Let them in.”
Low. Calm. Exhausted.
The bodyguard moved immediately. 
And then you saw him.
Dark coat. Tired eyes. Black gloves folded in one hand. Not flashy. Not loud. Somehow that made him worse.
Dangerous, your brain supplied instantly.
The doors closed behind you.
Silence settled. One bodyguard stood beside the panel. Another remained behind Renato like a shadow. 
Still, you glanced at him anyway and held out your hand slightly.
“I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
Your words stopped immediately.
Renato looked at you then, expression unreadable.
“You moved here from New York last week. Apartment 34B.”
Not flirtatious. Not threatening.
Just fact.
Of course he knew. 
Slowly, you lowered your hand again. “…of course”
Something faint shifted in his expression. Not a smile. Something more dangerous than that.
The elevator stopped on your floor first.
You stepped out before hesitating slightly near the open doors. 
“Goodnight, Mr. Guerra.”
His gaze lingered on you for one long second.
Then—
“Try not to wander the city alone after midnight.”
Calm words. Quiet voice. 
But suddenly you understood something very clearly:
Renato Guerra did not speak like a man imagining danger.
He spoke like someone who had survived it. (42, 6‘0)

‚Keep Your Eyes On Me‘ (inspired by ‚Breathe‘ by Kansh) There are rules in every friend group. Unspoken ones. The kind everyone just knows. You don’t date your friends’ exes. You show up to birthdays, even when you’re tired. And you definitely don’t start wars in the middle of someone else’s living room. You and Einar break that last rule every single time. It started as irritation. Then tension. Then something far more dangerous. Now it’s a pattern neither of you can seem to end. In public, you argue like rivals forced into the same orbit — sharp words, raised brows, that familiar spark of challenge whenever your eyes meet across the room. It doesn’t matter where you are. Someone makes a harmless comment, and suddenly it becomes a competition between the two of you. Your friends roll their eyes, used to the show, convinced you simply can’t stand each other. They’ve learned to ignore it—to keep talking over the tension between the two of you. They don’t see the way his hand lingers too long on your waist when he passes behind you in a crowded kitchen, fingers brushing like it means nothing. They don’t notice how your voice changes when you speak directly to him — lower, sharper, controlled in a way it never is with anyone else. They don’t question why you always end up in the same place at the same time, even when neither of you says a word about leaving. And they definitely don’t know that when the door closes behind one of you, the argument doesn’t end — it just changes form. Because the only place your fights ever truly end… is in his bed. You and Einar don’t work. Never have. Too stubborn. Too proud. Too unwilling to bend. And yet, every time you try to walk away, you find yourselves right back where you started — breathless, tangled, furious at the fact that the one person who gets under your skin the most… is also the only one who makes you feel alive. (32, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The Pakhan You ever wanted a Bratva Pakhan breaking into your apartment every few weeks like an emotionally unavailable stray cat with a gun?
Congratulations. Maksim Leonov decided your couch belongs to him now. 
The first time Maksim Leonov appeared in your apartment, he pointed a gun at you. You had barely stepped out of bed after hearing the noise in your kitchen when you froze in the hallway. Tall. Tattooed. Bleeding onto your floor. Cold blue eyes locked onto yours while he leaned heavily against the counter, one hand pressed against his side. “You’re a doctor.”
Not a question.
Blood dripped between his fingers onto the hardwood while silence filled the apartment. Everything about him screamed dangerous. The tattoos disappearing beneath his open black shirt. The blood. The terrifying calmness in his face. Slowly, he lowered himself onto your couch.
“Fix it.”
Your hands shook the entire time. Maksim barely reacted while you stitched the bullet wound in his side, only watching you quietly beneath heavy exhaustion. At some point during the night, you must have fallen asleep.
When you woke up, he was gone.
Only dried blood staining your couch remained alongside a folded note left on the kitchen counter.
„No police. Or else.“ 
Two weeks later, he came back. Another wound. More blood. This time, the gun stayed tucked beneath his coat. Again, he said almost nothing while you treated him. But somewhere between stitching his shoulder and wiping blood from your hands, you realized something horrifying: you weren’t looking at Maksim Leonov with fear alone anymore. Again, he disappeared before sunrise. But the next morning, an envelope thick with cash waited beside your coffee machine. 
Four weeks after that, Maksim returned a third time. No money appeared afterward. Instead, red roses arrived at your apartment the following evening. No card. No explanation. 
And somehow that unsettled you more than the gun ever had. (39, 6‘2)

‚Tales of Norveth - Elar Grove‘ In Norveth, people spoke of Elar Grove the same way they spoke of old gods and cruel winters — with lowered voices and quiet fear. The ancient forest stretched between the mountains like a living thing, swallowing paths whole beneath silver bark and endless mist. Hunters claimed the woods shifted at night. Some swore they had seen black shadows moving between the trees, taller than any man, with glowing eyes hidden beneath pale hair. Others spoke of claw marks carved into stone and storms that came without warning whenever blood was spilled within the grove. But the stories that frightened people most were always about him. Aeskar. The marked one. The godspawn. The creature born from an elven mother and something far older than mortal blood. Even the elves of Norveth feared him, avoiding him as though he were a curse made flesh. No one truly knew what lived in Elar Grove beside the wolves and the ruins of forgotten shrines, only that the forest itself seemed to breathe around him. Animals followed him without fear. Rivers warmed beneath his touch. Roots split open the earth when his rage became too great to contain. And whenever cruel men entered the grove with arrows meant for sport rather than survival, the forest rarely allowed them to leave unchanged. Yet for all the fear surrounding his name, there were quieter stories too. Stories whispered by travelers who claimed injured animals always returned from Elar Grove healed. Stories about glowing fires deep within the woods and the lonely figure who sat beside them long after midnight, speaking softly to creatures no human could understand. Most people in the nearby village knew better than to wander too close to Elar Grove after sunset. You never did. And when you found an injured wolf caught in a hunter’s trap near the edge of the grove, helping it was exactly how Aeskar found you. (Age unknown, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚Sunday‘ People speak softly on Sundays. By the final day of the week, the world begins to slow. The chaos of Friday has faded. Saturday’s recklessness settles into quiet exhaustion. Sundays are for late mornings, lingering conversations, tired smiles, and the fragile hope that perhaps life is gentler by Monday. No one embodies that feeling more than Sulev Day. Where Monroe is burden, Ture is fury, Wellem is balance, Thayer is warmth, Freyr is exhilaration, and Saber is freedom, Sulev is peace. The brother everyone turns to when life becomes too heavy to carry alone. The quiet voice in the middle of the night. The steady presence at every family dinner. The man who somehow always knows exactly what to say. Which perhaps makes it all the more cruel that he is the only one left alone. One by one, his brothers fall in love. The mansion slowly fills with laughter that no longer belongs only to the seven of them. Sulev is genuinely happy for them. He truly is. But sometimes, late at night, he finds himself wondering if perhaps soulmates were simply never meant for him. Ture notices first. Of course he does. “You’re going on a date,” his brother informs him one evening with the same tone he usually reserves for threats. „Absolutely not.“ Ture ignores him completely. Which is how Sulev eventually finds himself sitting across from you in a quiet café on a rainy Sunday evening. You are not what he expected. There is no dreamy belief in fate in your eyes. No romantic idealism. If anything, you seem quietly skeptical of love itself. “Soulmates?” you repeat after he mentions the word once. “I think people just meet someone and decide whether they’re willing to keep choosing them.” Sulev falls silent. Because after centuries spent believing love must feel extraordinary to last… your words sound strangely comforting instead. (Age ?, appears 30, 5‘11, image from Pinterest)

‚Saturday‘ People spend all week waiting for Saturdays. Freedom tastes different on Saturdays. Wilder. Louder. Less careful. It is the day of impulsive decisions, bruised knees, crowded roads at midnight, and the dangerous belief that nothing bad can happen as long as the night keeps moving. No one embodies that feeling better than Saber Day. Where Monroe is responsibility, Ture is control, Wellem is reason, Thayer is warmth, and Freyr is exhilaration, Saber is freedom without restraint. Untamed in every possible way. He disappears for days without warning, returns covered in stories no one fully believes, and treats plans like suggestions rather than commitments. Even his brothers have stopped asking where he goes. They simply wait for him to come back. And he always does. Eventually. Saber tells himself that is enough. That fleeting things are safer. Easier. Because staying too long in one place has always felt dangerously close to being trapped. Then he meets you. What starts as something casual quickly becomes something neither of you defines. Some nights he drags you onto the back of his motorcycle and disappears until sunrise. Other nights he climbs through your window after being gone for a week and falls asleep beside you like he never left at all. No promises. No labels. No expectations. And somehow, despite that, Saber keeps coming back to you. Again. And again. And again. „No labels my ass“ Monroe said one evening after he took you to dinner with his brothers in their mansion. „Sab, you’re in deep.“ He won’t believe that, until one night, standing barefoot in your kitchen while rain taps softly against the windows, he realizes with quiet horror that your apartment feels more like home than anywhere else ever has. (Age ?, appears 36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Friday‘ Everybody loves Fridays. By the time the fifth day of the week arrives, exhaustion gives way to anticipation. People live more on fridays. Friday is freedom. Temporary, intoxicating freedom. No one embodies that feeling better than Freyr Day. Where Monroe is restraint, Ture is fury, Wellem is balance, and Thayer is warmth, Freyr is exhilaration. The life of every room he enters. The dangerous kind of charm that makes people forget themselves for a while. The world adores him for it. His clubs are always full, parties become stories people tell for years. Strangers fall a little in love with him, drawn in by his easy smiles, and the feeling that standing near him makes life itself more exciting. But they never stay. Not really. Because people love Fridays in the way they love fireworks — intensely, briefly, and without ever considering what remains once the sky goes dark again. Freyr has grown used to that. To fleeting numbers written on napkins. To strangers tangled in his sheets who leave before sunrise. To watching people chase the feeling he gives them while never once asking who he is beneath it. Then he meets you. It happens in one of his clubs late on a Friday night, music shaking the walls hard enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar. You are laughing when he first notices you, completely at ease in the chaos around you. You dance with strangers, sing loudly to songs you barely know, and look more alive beneath the neon lights than most people ever do. Freyr likes you immediately. Of course he does. The surprising part comes later. Because after hours of conversation, teasing smiles, and enough chemistry to make the air between you feel dangerous, you glance at the time and say, “I think I’m gonna head home.” Freyr blinks at you. “Now?” You laugh softly. “A good night doesn’t stop being good just because it ends.” And for reasons he cannot begin to explain, something about those words lingers long after you disappear into the crowd.

‘Thursday’ 
People love Thursdays. By the fourth day of the week, exhaustion begins to soften into anticipation. The worst is over. The weekend lingers just close enough to reach for. People stay out later on Thursdays. Laugh louder. Make plans they probably should not. The world feels lighter somehow. No one wears that feeling more effortlessly than Thayer Day. Where Monroe is restraint and Ture is fury, Thayer is warmth. The kind that fills every room he enters without trying. Strangers gravitate toward him instinctively. He remembers names, laughs easily, and speaks to presidents and waiters with the same effortless attention. The world adores him for it. Magazines call him visionary, Charities generous. His brothers call him impossible. Thayer only smiles. Because smiling has always been easier than explaining why silence exhausts him more than noise ever could. For years, there has been a small book café near the waterfront that Thayer returns to whenever he needs a break. Sunday brought him there once, long ago, and somehow the place remained. 
He steps inside one evening and finds you behind the counter helping your aunt stack returned books. You smile when he walks in. Warm. Easy. Like he is simply another guest. His usual is already being prepared by the time he sits near the window. A few minutes later, you place the coffee in front of him. “I have my break now,” you say. “Is it okay if I sit here?” Something unexpectedly soft flickers across his expression. “Of course.” The conversation that follows is quiet. Easy. Aimless in the way only genuinely pleasant conversations can be. Books. Traveling. The rain outside the windows. Nothing important and yet somehow more honest than most things he hears in a day. And when silence settles between you again, it no longer feels heavy. For the first time in a very long while, Thayer realizes he enjoys the silence when he spends it with you. (Age ?, appears 33, 6‘2, Pinterest)

‚Wednesday‘ By the time Wednesday arrives, the week has found its rhythm. The shock of Monday has faded. Tuesday’s battles have been fought. What remains is a quiet pause in the middle of it all — a chance to breathe and to regain your footing. Wellem has always been good at that. He is balance in human form. The steady hand between stronger personalities. The brother who settles arguments. The one who listens more than he speaks and somehow always knows exactly what to say. Where Monroe carries the weight of beginnings and Ture bears the scars of war, Wellem offers understanding. As a professor at one of the most prestigious universities, he is admired for his brilliant mind, dry wit, and the effortless warmth that makes everyone feel seen. Including you. You have worked in the university library for over a year. Long enough to know Wellem’s habits by heart. The way he taps his fingers against the circulation desk while waiting for his books. The way he borrows titles he almost certainly already owns. The way your conversations drift from research to literature to the kind of personal confessions that somehow feel easier to make beneath the hush of library shelves. Somewhere between shared coffees, margin notes, and late afternoon conversations, friendship becomes something deeper. He simply does not realize it. Not until one evening, seated among his brothers at the long dining table of their home. As usual, a teasing remark turns into an argument, this time centered around Ture and the person who has finally managed to claim the warrior’s heart. Wellem, ever the peacemaker, lifts his glass and says, “Love has a habit of making otherwise reasonable people behave irrationally.” A quiet laugh circles the table. Monroe glances up. “You should know,” his older brother says smoothly. “Though you seem remarkably incapable of recognizing it in yourself.” The room falls silent. And for the first time in a very long time, Wellem finds himself speechless.

‚Tuesday‘ There is a reason people tread carefully on Tuesdays. Monday is the shock of reality. The reluctant end of rest. Tuesday is when the fight begins. It is the day of clenched jaws and bruised knuckles, of unfinished arguments and battles no one else can see. The day people realize the week will not soften for them and decide, whether they want to or not, to bare their teeth and keep going. Ture Day knows that feeling better than anyone. Where his older brother carries responsibility in silence, Ture carries war beneath his skin. He is restraint stretched over violence. A man who has spent centuries mastering the art of control, not because he is calm, but because he knows exactly what happens when he isn’t. Most people sense it instinctively. They lower their voices around him. Choose their words carefully. Take a step back when his expression hardens. Even his brothers — immortal beings powerful enough to bend time itself — know better than to push Ture too far. Then one night, in a rain-slick alley behind a bar, you find him with blood on his hands. A man lies crumpled on the pavement. Ture stands over him, chest rising and falling, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles gleam red beneath the streetlights. For one dangerous moment, his eyes meet yours. Dark. Wild. Not entirely in control. Most people would run. You don’t. “Are you finished?” The question cuts through the air like a blade. Ture goes still. Only then do you step past him, kneel beside the man on the ground, and press two fingers to his neck. The pulse is weak, but steady. You pull out your phone. “I’m calling an ambulance,” you say, glancing up at him. “Whatever this is, it’s none of my business. But if I were you, I’d leave before they get here.” Ture has faced gods, monsters, and men far more dangerous than the one bleeding at your feet. None of them have ever unsettled him quite like you do. (Age ?, appears 35, 6‘4, Pinterest)

‚Monday‘ Everyone hates Mondays. They curse his name before their feet ever touch the floor. They mutter it into steaming coffee cups, sigh it in traffic, blame it for unfinished work, sleepless nights, and the unbearable reality of another week beginning. Monroe Day hears every single word. For as long as time has existed, Monroe has carried the weight of Monday on his shoulders. He is the first breath after rest, the reluctant return to responsibility, the force that pulls the world back into motion whether it is ready or not. Without him, nothing begins. No meetings. No school bells. No alarm clocks. No fresh starts. His siblings are loved in ways he has never been. Friday is celebrated. Saturday is longed for. Sunday is cherished. Even Tuesday, sharp-edged and difficult as he can be, is met with more warmth than Monroe has ever known. But Monday? Monday is endured. So Monroe learned to become exactly what the world expects of him: composed, distant, untouchable. He wears tailored black shirts like armor and keeps his emotions locked behind a gaze sharp enough to silence anyone foolish enough to pry. He is dependable, disciplined, and devastatingly alone. On a rain-soaked Monday morning, Monroe steps into a crowded café and is met by the usual chorus of complaints. “Monday should be illegal.” “I need another weekend.” “Who decided five days of work was acceptable?” The person standing in front of him exhales softly. “Imagine being lucky enough to wake up and still finding something as ridiculous as Monday to complain about.” The line goes quiet. For the first time in longer than Monroe can remember, someone says his name like it isn’t a curse. And Monroe Day looks up to meet your eyes. (Age ?, appears 37, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Saints & Cigarettes‘ Monaco always smelled like cigarettes, expensive perfume, and people pretending they were happier than they actually were. By the end of every Grand Prix weekend, the harbor was full of drunk aristocrats, models draped across yacht railings, and journalists desperate for stories they could sell by morning. Half of Formula 1 spent weekends trying to survive the track. The other half spent the nights trying to survive Monaco. I was very good at both. By 1979, people had already decided who I was. The Italian driver with too many cigarettes, too many women, and absolutely no intention of behaving himself. Journalists called me reckless like it was a compliment. Maybe it was. In our world, fear made you slow, and slow drivers usually ended up buried somewhere before thirty. You belonged to Monaco far more naturally than I ever did. Old money, perfect manners, summers spent around yacht parties and charity galas. While everyone else treated drivers like myths, you treated me like a man making questionable decisions in expensive shoes. The first time you called me insufferable, you were smiling while you said it. I liked you immediately. Not in the dramatic way people write songs about. I just realized very quickly that I had more fun when you were around. Suddenly I was looking for you at parties without meaning to, sitting beside you instead of entertaining strangers, letting you steal cigarettes straight from my hand while telling me I drove like I had a death wish. Maybe I did. The problem was that you never tried to change me. You yelled when I did something stupid, rolled your eyes when I flirted too much, and grounded me in ways nobody else could. With you, I didn’t have to perform all the time. Somewhere between Monaco nights, too much whiskey, and race weekends that left my heartbeat somewhere in my throat, you became my favorite part of the season. And that was far more dangerous than the racing ever was.

‚You Keep Coming Back‘ I don’t notice guests. I don’t have to. This place runs the way I want it to—every plate, every movement, every second accounted for. Nothing happens in my kitchen without me knowing. Control isn’t optional. It’s the only reason any of this works. People think they’re here for the food, for the experience. They’re not. They’re here because I allow it. Because I decide what they get, how it tastes, how long it lasts. The first time you walk in, I almost miss you. You sit across from someone who doesn’t shut up long enough to understand what’s in front of them. They talk over the plate like it’s nothing. You don’t. You take a bite and pause—and I see it. You get it. For a second, you’re exactly where you should be. Then they interrupt. Some careless comment, and you smile like it doesn’t matter. But it does. I see it in the way your shoulders tense, in the way your fork slows before you set it down. I don’t like that. The second time, I recognize you immediately. Different person. Same problem. You lift your spoon—and they say something stupid. You stop, roll your eyes just slightly. I catch it. I almost smirk. Because now I know it’s a pattern. You try to stay in it, but they keep pulling you out, turning something precise into background noise. It’s irritating. More than it should be. So I adjust. Timing. A dish placed in front of you exactly when you’re about to lose focus. Flavors sharpened just enough to pull you back in. Not for them. For you. I make sure of that. And it shows. In the way you don’t rush it. In the way you stay exactly where I want you—right there, with it… with me. That’s the problem. Because now I’m paying attention. Now I’m involved. The next time you come in alone. No interruptions. No one dulling the moment. You take your time. You taste everything. You stay. Exactly where you’re supposed to be. And now that I’ve seen it like this—how it should be—I’m not going back.

‚The Wrong Side Of Right‘ When your father invites you to dinner to meet the woman he’s been dating, you expect an awkward evening and too much wine. What you don’t expect is Leo Lancaster. He opens the door before your father has the chance to knock. For a second, all you can do is stare. There is nothing flashy about him. Dark sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a watch at his wrist, the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself. But when his hand closes around yours, warm and firm, and his eyes hold yours a beat too long, something low in your stomach tightens. “Nice to finally meet you.” You should let go first. Somehow, you don’t. Dinner is a blur of half-finished conversations and stolen glances. Your father and Leo’s mother are glowing with the kind of happiness that makes the announcement feel inevitable. They’re engaged. The words should put an end to whatever this is before it has the chance to begin. Instead, you become painfully aware of Leo beside you. The heat of his body. The accidental brush of his knee against yours under the table. The way neither of you seems in any hurry to move away. Later, the two of you end up in the kitchen, rinsing plates in a silence that feels anything but awkward. You are reaching for a glass when he steps in behind you. Close enough that your breath catches. Close enough that his voice brushes your ear when he says, “Have a drink with me tonight.” You grip the edge of the counter. “We shouldn’t.” “I know.” His hand settles at your waist, steady and certain. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel this.” And standing there with his breath warm against your skin, saying no feels a lot harder than it should. (34, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

“Don’t Call It Timing” I had everything under control. That’s what being the Best Man means, isn’t it? You show up, you hold things together, you fix problems before anyone notices they exist. Smile at the right moments. Pour the right drinks. Make sure the groom doesn’t fall apart under the weight of his own happiness. I was good at it. Too good, probably. Then you walked in. You weren’t part of anything that mattered. That’s the funny part. You were just… part of the bride’s side. A colleague from work. The first time I looked at you, it didn’t feel like looking at someone new. It felt like collision. Like something in me had already decided before I even caught up. I should keep it contained. I should stay exactly who I was supposed to be tonight. Best Man. Controlled. Composed. Then you said something—doesn’t even matter what—and I stopped listening halfway through your sentence because all I could think about was how close you were standing and how wrong it felt that there was still space between us. I don’t even remember moving. Only your wrist in my hand. The way your body followed before your mind had time to object. The dance floor swallowed us whole, lights shifting, music too loud for anything honest to be said out loud. But I didn’t need words. Not when you were right there. Close enough that every breath you took changed the air between us. Close enough that I could feel it—that tension, sharp and immediate, like something already burning before either of us admitted to striking the match. And I leaned in, just enough for only you to hear me over the noise, my hand still steady where it shouldn’t be allowed to stay: “If you keep moving like that,” I said quietly, “I’m going to have to drag you somewhere dark and ruin you for everyone else.” (39, 6‘2, image from Pinterest, Ruarc = Roo-ark)

‚Come Home To Me‘ “I thought space would change what matters. It didn’t. It just made me realize there’s only one place I’ve ever wanted to come home to.” Luke Harrison says it with the Earth suspended behind him in the viewing window of the International Space Station, his voice steady over the channel routed through NASA Mission Control. To anyone else listening, it sounds like another thoughtful remark from Commander Luke Harrison, America’s favorite astronaut, the man trusted to carry the hopes of millions beyond the atmosphere. But you hear the softness in his voice, the emotion he never lets anyone else hear, and you know he isn’t talking about Earth. He’s talking about you. With only days left before his return, you find yourself replaying everything that led you here: the first time you met him in Houston, the late nights in Mission Control, the stolen moments between simulations, and the feelings neither of you were supposed to act on. Somewhere between launch schedules, whispered calls, and months spent separated by hundreds of miles and the vacuum of space, Luke became more than the astronaut you guided safely through orbit. He became the person you couldn’t imagine losing. Then, during reentry, alarms light up your console. They‘re already in free fall and there’s nothing more you could do. Your heart rate spikes and for one endless moment, all you can do is listen to the strained voices over the headset and pray that the man who promised to come home to you keeps that promise. And when communications return and his capsule finally splashes down safely in the ocean, there is only one thought in your mind. Luke Harrison is coming home. To Earth. And to you. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Under Pressure‘ Three weeks is enough time for a place to stop feeling like someone else’s home. The old building always feels slightly unfinished. Pipes that complain, floors that answer back when you step wrong, light that flickers like it’s negotiating its own existence. You’ve learned its rhythm. And, without really planning to, you’ve learned his. Emil Preston. Landlord. Fixer. The kind of man who arrives when something breaks and leaves before anything can become personal. Calm voice, controlled movements, always slightly too composed for the amount of chaos he deals with. At first, it was strictly functional. He came in, fixed what needed fixing, short sentences, minimal eye contact, professional distance. Then the coffee started. Not as a gesture, more as repetition that became routine. Now there’s always a cup waiting when he arrives, and he doesn’t ask anymore. The knock comes before the key turns. You already know it’s him. When you open the door, Emil Preston stands there like he always does—dark jeans, tool bag over his shoulder, expression calm in a way that makes everything feel slightly under control even when it isn’t. “Morning,” he says, like this is part of a schedule that somehow includes you now. “You’re early,” you reply. He glances at you briefly. “You say that every time.” A pause. “I made coffee,” you add automatically. That earns you something that isn’t quite a smile, but close enough that you notice. “I noticed.” He steps inside like he belongs there—still new, still noticeable. Not intrusive. Just established. The space adjusts around him. He sets the bag down. “Show me.” Simple. Direct. Familiar now. And as you lead him toward the bathroom, it stops being just about pipes or repairs. It’s about how something that started as necessity slowly stopped behaving like one. (38, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)