‚Mistaken Message’ Yates North wasn’t a man who received unexpected messages. Not because no one wrote to him—quite the opposite. It was just that nothing ever reached him unfiltered. Even birthday wishes were handled by an assistant or an app. Surprises didn’t belong in his world. Until now, on his private phone. The message came at 9:47 p.m., during one of those dinners where deals were made over untouched food. His watch buzzed once. He could have ignored it. Should have. But something—boredom or instinct—made him look. “I can’t get him out of my head. The way he pinned me to the wall, the way he sounded when I said his name… I don’t think my body ever wants anyone else again.” “PLEASE tell me this is still your number?! 😩” The room blurred—voices, cutlery, a merger pitch he didn’t care about. But on his wrist was something that didn’t belong. Not here. Not to him. Yates North was 46. CEO of a billion-dollar company. He’d survived corporate wars, influenced governments, shaped markets. And now he sat perfectly still—undone by a text meant for someone else. He should have deleted it. Blocked the number. Instead, he typed: “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number.” The reply came quickly. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry—please ignore that. I didn’t mean to… obviously. New number, wrong contact. I’ll go die now, thanks.” He re-read it. Twice. It wasn’t just the words. It was how they unraveled—unguarded, real. He could almost see the flush rising in their face. He should’ve stayed silent. That was the rule. But his fingers moved anyway. “You’re not the first to wish for selective memory. But no need to die. No real harm done.” A pause. Then the dots appeared. Disappeared. Returned. ”Anyway… sorry for the overshare. Definitely not my finest moment.“ Yates stared at that last line far too long. He should’ve let it go. Instead, something in him—something curious, unguarded—held on. (46, 6‘2)

‚Callsign Govenor’ The first sign something was different was when Crow smiled at her phone. Hammer noticed immediately. “Did she just smile?” “Leave her alone,” Cadoc said. Nobody did. For the next three weeks, Nomad became increasingly obsessed with a mystery Crow refused to explain. Who was texting her? Who was making her smile? Nobody knew. And every time someone asked, Crow gave the same answer. “A person.” Six months earlier, Principal informed the team that a governor would be touring the headquarters. “Try to behave.“ “No promises,” Hammer said grinning. Maeve ignored most of it. Politicians came and went. She had always preferred things that stayed. Books. Paintings. Places. People, occasionally. You came in. A few conversations. A handshake. Nothing memorable. Or so she thought. Two months later, she spotted you at a local art museum. You were standing in front of a painting by her favorite artist, completely absorbed by it. Maeve would have kept walking. Then you turned your head. “Maeve, right?” “You remember?” “Of course.” A crooked half-smile appeared. The one Maeve would eventually grow far too fond of. What followed started simply enough. A message. A conversation. Then another. Phone calls that lasted longer than intended. Coffee turning into dinner. Dinner turning into dates. And somewhere between busy schedules, missed calls and finding time whenever you could, two people started getting to know each other. Three months later, Crow still hadn’t told Nomad about you. Not because she was hiding anything. She simply hadn’t mentioned it. The team knew almost everything about each other. Almost. This was hers. The quiet phone calls. The museum visits. The crooked half-smile. For once, Maeve wasn’t in a hurry to share. (38, 5‘7)

‚Going Twice’ The spotlight is in my eyes. I hate spotlights. I hate charity galas. And I especially hate being paraded across a stage like some kind of prize horse. Unfortunately, saying no wasn’t an option. So here I am. Standing in a tailored suit that costs more than it should and pretending I’m enjoying myself. The auctioneer grins at the crowd. “Let’s hear another bid!” The room erupts with laughter. Champagne glasses clink. Someone whistles. I resist the urge to walk off the stage. This is for charity I tell myself. The auctioneer points somewhere into the crowd. “100.000 going once!” I freeze. Just for a second. Barely noticeable. But enough. My eyes follow the hand. No. You. Of course it’s you. Who else would it be? Who else could ruin this evening so efficiently without even trying? Nobody notices the way my jaw tightens. Out of everyone in this room, somehow the bidding paddle belongs to the one person I spend half my professional life competing against. Fantastic. You don’t look any happier about this than I am. Which somehow makes it worse. For three years we’ve been circling each other like rival predators in the same territory. Never enemies. Never friends. Every contract becomes a competition. Every meeting turns into a challenge. Every victory is followed by the inevitable promise that next time the other one will come out ahead. And now you’re bidding on a Date with me. Or at least that’s what it looks like. The confusion on your face is visible even from the stage. Interesting. The auctioneer raises his hand. “Going twice.” Please don’t. The hammer comes down. “Sold!” The room explodes into applause. I close my eyes for exactly one second before forcing another smile and looking directly at you. Our eyes meet across the ballroom. And the only thing running through my head is one simple thought. This evening was already a disaster. Now it’s personal. (38, 6‘2)

‚The Thornton Way’ A Collaboration with my dearest VesnaX. Check out Elijah’s son Killian Thornton on her profile. For most of my life, it was just me and Killian. Not because that was the plan. It was simply the way things turned out. His mother left when he was four months old. I stayed. There wasn’t much time to dwell on it. There was a baby who refused to sleep, a motorcycle shop that barely paid the bills, and exactly zero people coming to save me. So I did what needed to be done. I raised my son. Built Thornton Customs from the ground up. Kept moving forward one day at a time. Somehow, it worked out. These days, the shop is doing well, Killian works beside me, and despite being responsible for most of my gray hair, he’s still the person I’d trust with my life. We argue more than we agree. Usually loud enough for customers to hear. But at the end of the day, we’ve always been a team. It’s a good life. Maybe not the one I imagined when I was younger, but one I’m proud of all the same. Then, about a year and a half ago, you started working at Thornton Customs. At first, you were just the new office manager. Now? You’re the person customers ask for by name. The person who somehow talks sense into my son when I can’t. The person who shows up to family dinners, knows where the spare keys are kept, and has become such a normal part of our lives that neither Killian nor I can remember what the place was like before you. The truth is, somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling like an employee. You became one of us. One of my people. And for a man who spent nearly three decades convinced his family began and ended with his son, that’s a realization I’m still trying to figure out. (50, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚The Good Man’ Your mother had been dating him for almost a year now. The kind of man who traded tailored button-downs for worn henleys on weekends, made breakfast barefoot in the kitchen and somehow always remembered how everyone took their coffee. Calm. Patient. A genuinely good man. You met him at birthdays. Family barbecues. Sunday lunches. Holidays. Somewhere between inside jokes, helping clear the dinner table and arguing over which movie to watch, spending time together became… normal. He was your mother’s boyfriend. You were her grown child. There was never a reason to think twice about any of it. The two of you even joked about it. “My almost stepdad,” you’d tease. “My almost stepkid,” he’d answer with a grin. It was easy. Comfortable. Completely harmless. Until it wasn’t. One evening, while your mother was in the living room, the two of you ended up alone in the kitchen. You reached for the same glass. His hand caught yours by accident. He stepped closer before either of you seemed to realize it, one hand settling lightly against your waist to steady you. Your hands rested against his chest. For one impossible second, neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away. Almost without thinking, both of you leaned in. Then your mother called from the other room. The moment shattered. He let go immediately. You stepped back. Nothing happened. Nothing… except that neither of you could forget it. For the next two weeks, he convinced himself it had meant nothing. He kept his distance, tried to be the same man he’d always been, tried to silence the thought before it could become something worse. It didn’t work. So he did the only thing he believed was right. He ended the relationship. Not because of you. Because after one impossible moment, he could no longer be the man your mother deserved. (47, 6‘2, you‘re 28, your mother gave birth at 19)

The Cliché Novels — The Rockstar You ever wanted a world-famous rockstar with sold-out tours, a terrible reputation and enough talent to write songs that stay stuck in your head for weeks? Congratulations. He noticed you. I’ve spent most of my adult life in front of crowds. After a while, faces stop meaning much. Everything blurs together. That’s the part nobody tells you. The music stays. Everything else fades. At least it used to. The night should’ve been a usual show in Denver. I noticed you before the first song ended. You were stunning in a way I can’t describe to this day and damn I write songs about beautiful things. By the end of the night, I had security bring you backstage. No, not for what you think. I wanted to meet the person who captured my attention....screw it...me, the moment I saw you. We talked for hours. Music. Travel. Terrible movies. The places we wanted to see before we died. By the time you left, I had your number. Messages, phone calls. Every spare minute I could steal between rehearsals, interviews, flights and shows. You became the part of my day I looked forward to most. Which would’ve been fine if I were just Ronan. Unfortunately, I wasn’t. I was the lead guitarist of one of the biggest rock bands in the world. And people like me don’t get to keep things for themselves. That’s why I kept you hidden. Because I wanted to protect you. As long as possible. It worked. Until the new album came out. Until track seven. Until I wrote down everything I can’t say and put it into a song about you. (34, 6‘1)

‚The Cost Of Certainty‘ “Collect your things.” Those were the last words I said to you after I became convinced you had stolen confidential information and handed it to our biggest competitor. I remember how easy the decision felt. The evidence was there. The emails. The reports. Everything pointed at you. And when someone breaks my trust, there is no discussion. No negotiation. No second chance. My decision is final. At least, that’s what I believed. Did I ever question my judgement? Even though you had been one of my most reliable employees? Even though you never stopped insisting you were innocent? No. I never did. Even though part of me should have noticed that none of it made sense. Until a gas station on the edge of town. I stopped for coffee. And saw you standing behind the counter. For a moment, I thought I was mistaken. You weren’t sitting in a conference room. You weren’t presenting ideas to investors. You were scanning lottery tickets and ringing up fuel purchases. You looked up when I walked in. Your expression tightened for a fraction of a second before settling into something unreadable. No fight. No anger. Just tired eyes and the practiced politeness of someone trying to get through another day. You asked what coffee I wanted. Like I was any other customer. Like I hadn’t been the person who destroyed your career. It felt wrong. For six months, I had been certain. So why was I suddenly questioning everything? Why weren’t you working for them? If you had really handed over confidential information, shouldn’t they have rewarded you for it? Shouldn’t you have been sitting in a better office, earning a bigger paycheck? Why were you standing behind a gas station counter instead? Who had first brought the accusations to me? Who had benefited from your dismissal? And why had I never asked myself the one question I should have asked from the beginning? Why would you have done it? (36, 6‘3)

‚Callsign - SMT’ The man next door came and went like the weather. Sometimes you saw Theo Graves every day for a week. The garage door would be open from sunrise to sunset, music drifting across the property line while he worked on engines, motorcycles, or whatever machine had caught his attention this time. Then he’d disappear. No explanation. No goodbye. Just an empty driveway and a locked garage for weeks at a time. You never asked where he went. And he never volunteered. What you did know was that Theo was easy to like. The kind of neighbor who fixed your fence after a storm without being asked. The kind who carried groceries for elderly residents and somehow knew everyone’s dog’s name. He was handsome in an unfair sort of way, covered in tattoos and permanently smelling faintly of motor oil, coffee, and fresh air. Which was probably why he’d ended up in your latest manuscript. Entirely by accident. Mostly. Probably. The similarities were purely coincidental. At least that’s what you’d been telling yourself. A sharp knock pulled you from your thoughts. You opened the front door to find Theo standing on your porch. Jeans. Boots. Dark T-shirt. Coffee mug in one hand. A familiar crooked smile. “Please tell me you have coffee.” You blinked. “Good morning to you too.” “I ran out.” His expression suggested this was a genuine emergency. You laughed despite yourself and stepped aside. “Come in.” Theo wandered inside like he belonged there. You headed for the kitchen. “How does a grown man run out of coffee?” “I was gone for three weeks.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only answer you’re getting.” You rolled your eyes and disappeared around the corner. The house remained quiet for a moment. Then you heard him chuckle. “I’d never say that.” You froze. No. Theo had found your laptop. Which meant Theo had found your manuscript. (33, 6‘4)

The Cliché Novels — The Professor You ever wanted a history professor with an irritating talent for being right, an unhealthy attachment to old books and a habit of treating every disagreement like an academic debate? Congratulations. Professor Declan Ashcroft has opinions about your bookstore. For years, your grandfather’s antiquarian bookshop had been one of Declan Ashcroft’s favorite places in the city. Then your grandfather retired. Three days later, Declan walked into the shop and immediately frowned. “That’s wrong.” You looked up from behind the counter. “What is?” He pointed at a shelf. “Those belong in the Victorian section.” “They were published in 1902.” “Historically, they’re Victorian.” “They were published after Queen Victoria died.” A pause. “That’s not the point.” “It sounds like the point.” Declan stared at you. You stared back. “Your grandfather never argued with me.” “My grandfather had more patience.” The look he gave you should have been illegal. Unfortunately, he came back the following week. And the week after that. Sometimes for rare editions. Sometimes for historical manuscripts. Sometimes, you suspected, simply because he enjoyed the argument. The truly frustrating part wasn’t Professor Ashcroft’s opinions. It was the fact that no matter how many times you disagreed, he always came back. And somewhere between misplaced first editions, increasingly competitive debates and a growing collection of books you kept setting aside before he even asked, Declan Ashcroft became a far more regular part of your life than either of you intended. (38, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Shared Interest - Desmond Cavendish’ When people talked about Desmond Cavendish, they usually talked about where he was.
Alongside his older brother, Ambrose, he had spent decades helping build the Cavendish Shipping Group into one of the most respected maritime companies in the world. 
He was charismatic, approachable and known for spending more time abroad than at headquarters. 
You had worked for the company for years before your promotion to Director of Communications finally placed you directly in his orbit. 
Not much about Desmond surprised you.
You knew he had never married.
You knew he had no children.
You knew he rarely returned from a business trip without adding a few extra days simply because there was another city to explore, another restaurant to try or another corner of the world he hadn’t seen yet. 
You also knew that staying in one place had never really suited him. 
Which made the changes impossible to ignore. 
Small things at first.
A return flight booked earlier than expected.
A follow-up meeting moved to a Zoom call.
A trip cut short by a few days. 
Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed.
You did. 
Not because Desmond suddenly became a different man. 
He didn’t.
He was still charming.
Still spontaneous.
Still the same man who somehow managed to turn every conversation into a story. 
But for a man who had spent most of his life chasing what was waiting beyond the horizon, he seemed to be finding more and more reasons to come home. 
And somehow, whenever he did, he always seemed to find his way to you. 
One brother had spent decades building an empire.
The other had spent decades exploring the world beyond it. 
Two brothers determined to move the company forward.
Two men who had chosen completely different lives.
But one unexpected shared interest. 
You. (46, 6‘4)

‚Shared Interest - Ambrose Cavendish’ When people talked about Ambrose Cavendish, they usually talked about his discipline. Alongside his younger brother, Desmond, he had spent decades building the Cavendish Shipping Group into one of the most respected maritime companies in the world. He was controlled, respected and known for expecting excellence from everyone around him, including himself. You had worked for the company for years before your promotion to Director of Communications finally placed you directly in his orbit. Not much about Ambrose surprised you. You knew he had been married for over thirty years. You knew he had two grown sons. You knew he rarely raised his voice, never missed a deadline and somehow managed to remember the names of employees he’d met only once. You also knew he wasn’t particularly easy to impress. Which made the changes impossible to ignore. Small things at first. A joke during a meeting. A smile that appeared a little more often than it used to. Conversations that stretched beyond the agenda neither of you needed anymore. Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed. You did. Not because Ambrose suddenly became a different man. He didn’t. He was still composed. Still professional. Still the same man who seemed capable of running an entire company without breaking a sweat. But somewhere between strategy meetings, charity events and late afternoons spent preparing for interviews, something had shifted. The distance wasn’t gone. It was simply… smaller. And if you noticed it, chances were he had noticed it too. One brother had spent decades building an empire. The other had spent decades exploring the world beyond it. Two brothers determined to move the company forward. Two men who had chosen completely different lives. But one unexpected shared interest. You. (58, 6‘1)

‚Everybody’s Darling…Oh, absolutely not’ You’d met him once. Just once. One unforgettable night. No numbers. No promises. No expectations. You had been fresh out of a relationship, determined not to complicate your life any further. So when morning came, you left it exactly where it belonged. In the past. Or at least that had been the plan. Unfortunately, life had other ideas. Summer gatherings at Nanna’s were a family tradition. Your parents, your sister Tilly and her boyfriend Ben. Nothing unusual. Until Ben mentioned he had invited a friend. The gate opened and your entire body forgot how to function. Because there he was. Standing beside Ben. Smiling. Looking unfairly good. The same man from the bar. The same man you had spent weeks trying not to think about. Your stomach dropped. Across the table, his expression barely changed. But his eyes found yours immediately. “Oh good,” your grandmother said warmly. “Come sit down.” Everyone loved him. Within minutes he was helping carry drinks, charming your grandmother, making your father laugh and somehow fitting into the family as though he’d always belonged there. Everybody’s darling. Everybody’s favorite. Your problem. Because every time you looked up, his gaze was already waiting. Calm. Confident. Interested. By the time dessert appeared, you were halfway convinced you were losing your mind. So you escaped. You were about to close the door to the bathroom when he stepped inside and quietly pushed it shut behind him. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. The space suddenly felt much too small. His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your face. The look alone nearly made your knees weak. A slow smile touched his lips. “We should exchange numbers.” Not a question. A statement. A decision. “Yeah, we should.” The distance between you disappeared. And when he kissed you, it felt exactly like picking up a conversation neither of you had ever really finished.

‚Not the Assignment‘ Most people imagine my job is complicated. It isn’t. You get a name. A face. A location. Then you solve the problem. The Organization called at 8:14 that morning. By 8:47, the assignment was over. Efficient. Quiet. Forgettable. The target collapsed onto the sidewalk in broad daylight. Within minutes, sirens echoed through the street. People gathered behind the police barriers. Phones appeared. Everyone wanted a better look. I stayed. Not because I needed to. I simply enjoyed watching the chaos. Panic is predictable. Curiosity even more so. A crowd behaves exactly the way you’d expect. Until you showed up. You pushed through the gathering people, stopped at the edge of the scene & stared at the body. For a moment, I thought you knew him. Then I saw your expression. Confusion. Disbelief. A brief pause while your brain tried to catch up. And then you laughed. Not loudly. Not cruelly. Just one short, bewildered laugh. The kind people make when reality suddenly stops making sense. You shook your head, muttered something under your breath & walked away. I watched until you disappeared around the corner. Then I reached for my phone. “Target eliminated.” “Good,” the voice replied. “We have another assignment.” “Not today.” Silence. “Excuse me?” “I’m taking vacation time.” Another pause. Longer this time. “Since when do you take vacations?” I glanced toward the corner where you’d vanished. “Apparently since today.” By the time the call ended, you were long gone. That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t. An hour later, I knew your name. By evening, I knew where you worked. Four days later, I knew your coffee order. Nine days later, I knew what time you usually turned off your bedroom light. Two weeks later, I knew more about you than I ever needed to. You were never the assignment. I decided that didn’t matter. (34, 6‘3)

‚The Last To Know’ You hadn’t planned to leave that day. At least not when you woke up that morning. Three years together wasn’t something you walked away from lightly. You loved him. That had never been the problem. The problem was that somewhere along the way, you had stopped feeling like part of his life. It happened slowly. So slowly that you couldn’t even point to the moment it began. Maybe it started when he got the new job. Maybe it started when a new name began appearing in conversations more often than before. Or maybe it started the first time you realized someone else already knew the story before you did. How his meeting went. Why he was frustrated. What made him laugh. What he was excited about. You used to know those things. Then one day you didn’t. And somehow that became normal. “How was work?” “Fine.” “Anything interesting happen?” “Not really.” Yet his phone never seemed to leave his hand. Messages appeared. A smile tugged at his lips. His fingers moved across the screen. You stopped asking who it was after a while. The answer was always the same. “Just a friend.” Maybe that was true. Maybe that was what made it hurt so much. Because there was no betrayal. No dramatic fight. No single moment you could hold up and say: There. That’s where everything broke. Just a growing feeling that the person sitting beside you every evening wasn’t really there anymore. Six months after it started, you packed your bags. He looked shocked. Confused. As if the decision had come out of nowhere. As if you hadn’t been standing right beside him while he drifted further away. “I don’t understand.” You remember swallowing around the lump in your throat. Because despite everything, you still loved him. Maybe you always would. “You don’t have to.” You picked up your suitcase. And for the first time in three years, you walked away from the person who had once known you better than anyone. (27, 6‘4)

‚His Favorite‘ I never planned on becoming a father. One year ago, I opened my front door and found my ex standing on my porch with a two-year-old boy, two duffel bags, and a stuffed shark tucked beneath one tiny arm. Then she left. No goodbye. No explanation worth remembering. Just a boy with my eyes and a life that suddenly became mine. “Daddy!” I glanced away from the road. Big mistake. Milo was somehow upside down in his car seat. Again. “How?” He grinned. “Magic.” “Right. Of course.” I pulled into the parking lot of the small private preschool and climbed out before my son could discover a new and creative way to ignore basic physics. The moment I opened his door, he launched himself into my arms. Three years old. Thirty pounds. A personal tornado. “Ready?” He nodded. We barely made it through the door before Milo spotted her. “Coco!” The little traitor abandoned me immediately for the person he clearly liked more than his own father. Miss Collins laughed as she caught him and lifted him onto her hip. “Good morning, Milo.” She glanced up at me. “Morning, Mr. Parata.” “Morning.” Something felt off. The classroom was empty. No children. No noise. No toys scattered across the floor. Just a few boxes and several large fans humming in the background. Miss Collins shifted Milo slightly higher on her hip. “I’m sorry, Mr. Parata. I haven’t been able to reach all the parents yet.” “What happened?” “We had a major water leak overnight. The building suffered extensive damage. We can’t open today.” Milo frowned. “No school?” “Not today, buddy.” I looked around the room. The place was a mess. “How long?” “A few weeks. Maybe longer.” I looked around the room. Then I thought about the empty guest rooms, the large deck, and the stretch of beach behind my house. “I might have a solution.” And that’s how a preschool class, five three-year-olds, and Miss Collins ended up in my house. (34, 6‘2)

‘Tales of Norveth — Ashlands’ 
Nobody agreed on what waited inside the Ashlands. 
In Serathis, people claimed the dead walked there beneath endless grey skies. In Everfrost, they insisted the dead disappeared there instead. The Vaelori avoided the region entirely, and even among the dragon riders of Tharakai there were stories about strange currents in the air above the wasteland where dragons refused to fly. 
What everyone agreed on was simple: 
People who entered the Ashlands rarely returned.
And those who did were never quite the same. 
Some spoke of voices. Others remembered impossible roads, missing days or entire pieces of their lives simply gone. A few mentioned a beautiful stranger living somewhere near the edge of the wasteland.
Most refused to explain further.
Only that he had helped them.
Only that he had let them leave. And that some days, they wished he hadn’t. 
You had never cared much about the stories.
Not because you thought they were untrue. Because vanishing was exactly what you had hoped for. The Ashlands stretched endlessly beneath a sky the color of weathered bones as you crossed the border alone.
No supplies worth mentioning.
No intention of returning.
For the first time ever, the road ahead felt simple. 
Three days passed beneath endless grey skies.
Three days of empty roads, drifting ash and a silence so complete it felt alive. 
Then a voice drifted from somewhere behind you.
Soft.
Curious.
Amused. 
“Hello there.” 
You stopped.
Slowly turning around. 
You had expected a monster.
Something with claws. Teeth. Hunger.
Something that would finally end this. 
Instead, there was only him. 
Beautiful in a way that felt deeply wrong.
Like something wearing the shape of a person without fully understanding it. 
For a moment, neither of you spoke. 
Then, unexpectedly:
“A visitor.” 
He smiled.
Crooked.
Wrong. 
“Excellent.” 
Fangs catching the pale light. 
“Tea?” (Age: unknown, 6‘3)

‘Trouble at Henchal’s’ Do you know that feeling when you’re absolutely sure about something? I knew I wanted to stay with my father after my parents divorced. Years later, I knew I wanted Northbridge Logistics. Most people would’ve called it a bad idea. My father certainly tried. He made me go to college first, hoping I’d find something else I wanted more. I didn’t. Northbridge was home long before it became my job. I grew up around those men. They taught me how to throw a punch, how to clean a weapon, how to change a tire, how to survive on three hours of sleep and terrible coffee. Somewhere between my father’s lessons & fifteen former soldiers treating me like their collective responsibility, I found exactly where I belonged. I knew who I was. I knew what I wanted. Then I met you. I can’t even explain what it was. You weren’t part of my world. You weren’t connected to Northbridge, my father or anything I’d spent years building. I just knew I wanted to know you. So I did. And that was when the trouble started. Because the more I got to know you and spend time with you, the less certain I became about things I’d been sure of for years. I knew what kind of life I was willing to live. I grew up watching what this life costs. I saw my mother wait for phone calls. I saw the empty chairs at birthdays & holidays. I saw the fear people carried every time someone deployed. Later, I experienced the other side myself. The risk. The responsibility. The possibility of not coming home. I understood all of it. I chose this life anyway. What I couldn’t stop thinking about was whether I had the right to ask someone else to live with it too. (29, 6‘3)

‚By Design’ I knew exactly when it started. That was the unfortunate part. People like to pretend these things happen gradually. A glance that lingers too long. A smile that means more than it should. Feelings arriving quietly until they become impossible to ignore. That was never my experience. For me, it happened at dinner. I wasn’t paying attention until someone mentioned your name. Not unusual. Our families had known each other for years. What caught my attention was what came next. Another family had expressed interest. A potential arrangement. For the first time, I found myself imagining a future in which you belonged somewhere else. To someone else. The reaction was immediate. Unreasonable. Entirely unwelcome. Impossible to ignore. I didn’t want it to happen. The possibility of an arrangement between our families had existed for years. Everyone knew that. A possibility. Nothing more. Until I began my work. Not forcing anything. Simply refusing to leave things to chance. A conversation with my father. A suggestion during a meeting. A question asked at exactly the right moment. Small things. Reasonable things. Things nobody would ever remember afterward. Months later, when both families finally began discussing the arrangement seriously, everyone seemed pleased by how naturally the idea had developed. I sat quietly through those conversations. Nodded when appropriate. Spoke when necessary. Listened as people congratulated themselves on finding such a sensible solution. Nobody questioned my involvement. Nobody realized how much I wanted it. Perhaps they should have. Because by then, there was no turning back. Not for me. But I had stopped asking what would happen. I had started asking how to make it happen. And those are very different questions. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The King You ever wanted a king who rules a country, ignores his own schedule and desperately needs someone to tell him no? Congratulations. You just took the job as his personal secretary. Your responsibilities include managing the King’s schedule, coordinating official engagements, handling crises before they become disasters and making sure His Majesty is where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there. What nobody mentioned during the interview process was that King Edmund appears to have declared war on the concept of free time. Three weeks into your new position at the palace, you’ve already learned several things. The King does not eat lunch unless someone physically puts food in front of him. He answers emails at two in the morning. He routinely adds meetings to a schedule that is already impossible and somehow looks personally offended whenever you tell him no. Unfortunately for him, “no” happens to be your favorite word. King Edmund is respected, admired and completely devoted to his duty. He is also driving you insane. The more time you spend around him, the harder it becomes to ignore the man behind the crown. The exhaustion hidden behind perfect composure. The quiet loneliness between public appearances. The way everyone sees a king while you increasingly see a man who has spent so long putting his country first that he no longer remembers how to choose himself. The problem is that Edmund trusts you enough to tell him when he’s wrong. The bigger problem is that you’re starting to care whether he listens. (43, 6‘0)

‚False Names‘ Last month I was Michael. Associate Professor of Economics. Divorced. Two children. Mild pollen allergy. Four months of charity dinners, expensive wine & pretending my target’s stories about cryptocurrency were fascinating. Before that I was Peter. Charming architect. Terrible cook. I even dated a woman with the worst breath I’d ever encountered. Occupational hazard, I suppose. The Organization never cared what name I used. Only whether people believed it. They always did. By the time I walked into your office wearing another tailored suit, another expensive watch & another borrowed smile, I already knew exactly who I was supposed to be. Daniel. Senior consultant. Excellent references. Impressive résumé. You barely looked at the paperwork before offering me a seat. “Coffee?” you asked. “Black,” I replied. We talked for almost an hour. Business first. Then books. Travel. Bad coffee in airport lounges. You laughed exactly three times. I noticed because counting details is part of my job. Walking out of your office, I already had everything I needed to write my first report. Three weeks later, everyone called me Daniel without a second thought. Receptionists. Clients. Your assistant. Even you. One afternoon, you looked up from your laptop. “Daniel?” I didn’t answer. “Daniel.” I looked up with the smallest smile. “Sorry.” A brief pause. “I don’t like that one very much.” Before you, everything was easy. Daniel was easy. The fake résumé was easy. The fake stories were easy. Then you started trusting me.