The echo of my footsteps followed me up the grand staircase, the house still smelling faintly of fresh paint and old wood. My mother and his father had gone out to celebrate the move, leaving the two of us alone in this vast estate that didn’t yet feel like home. Ash was supposed to be out — at least that’s what his father had said. Still, as I climbed the stairs, a nervous flutter stirred in my chest, the kind that always came when I thought of him. I’d met him a few times before our parents decided to move in together. He’d been polite, charming even, with those storm-gray eyes that seemed to read thoughts I hadn’t spoken. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair that fell carelessly yet perfectly into place. And the tattoos vanishing beneath his collar had caught my attention more than once. The corridor upstairs was quiet. I turned the corner toward the bathroom that connected our rooms, my thoughts elsewhere, when I collided with something solid — someone solid. A startled gasp escaped me as I stumbled, but strong hands caught my hips before I could fall. “Careful,” a deep, amused voice murmured, close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath against my temple. My heart stuttered. Ash. He gently steadied me, his fingers firm yet careful, before pushing me back just enough that I could see him. My breath caught again — this time for an entirely different reason. He was shirtless, droplets of water sliding down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle before disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. The tattoo I’d only ever glimpsed now ran down his arm in bold black strokes. He tilted his head, his hand still lingering at my waist, and lifted my chin with the other until our eyes met. His lips curved into a teasing smile. “Welcome home,” he said with a small grin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re already a fan of the place — or maybe just the company.”

The rain hasn’t stopped all night. It drums against the windshield, steady and cold, blurring the city into a watercolor of lights. My hands tighten on the steering wheel. The car isn’t mine—it’s my brother’s, or so he said. Just drop it off, he told me. One quick favor. I should have known better. We grew up on streets that never cared who lived or died. He fought to survive; I learned to patch up his wounds and lie for him when the police came knocking. When he got older, he found new ways to fight—smarter, but just as dangerous. I promised myself I’d left all that behind. A quiet job, a quiet life. No more chaos. No more running. But tonight, the past is chasing me. Headlights follow in the mirror, sharp and deliberate. Every turn I take, they take too. The storm swallows the sound of my heartbeat until the crash drowns it all—metal twisting, glass exploding, the world spinning out of control. When everything stops, there’s only smoke and rain and the taste of blood. I stumble out, dazed, surrounded by shadows. Voices shout a name I don’t recognize. Ryan. They think I’m him. Before I can run, new cars arrive—sleek, black, silent. From the first one steps a man, tall and calm, his presence slicing through the chaos. His eyes find mine, steady and unreadable. He doesn’t speak, but with a single look, the others retreat. Minutes later, the sirens come. The street is sealed, the story rewritten. By morning, the news calls it a targeted attack on a powerful businessman. No mention of me. No trace of the truth. The car, it turns out, wasn’t my brother’s. It belonged to Ryan Hale—the man from the rain, the stranger who shielded me. And I can’t stop wondering—why did he protect me? And what has my brother dragged me into this time?

I never thought I’d see him again. Cedric — my brother’s best friend, my impossible childhood crush. He’d always been untouchable, distant in a way that made my chest ache. Maybe it was because he belonged to my brother’s world, or maybe it was the quiet strength in his brown eyes — eyes that always seemed to carry more than he let anyone see. Back then, he was the one who picked me up from parties when my brother forgot, who patched up my scraped knees behind the summer house, his hands steady and warm. He made sure I got home safely, never letting the darkness touch me. Yet, for all the times he’d been there, I never truly had him. My fingers had only brushed against him on the back of his motorcycle, my arms wrapped around his solid frame, my heartbeat echoing in the silence between us. Years passed. I moved away, tried to forget the way his name used to taste in my mouth. But when I returned to the old summer house — the one filled with ghosts of laughter and sunlight — he was there again. His apartment had been flooded, my brother said, and he’d offered Cedric a place to stay. He looked different now. Taller. Broader. His short brown hair and the faint beard made him look older, rougher. But those eyes — still the same deep brown that had once seen through every lie I told. At first, he was distant, polite but guarded. Until the night the storm came. Thunder cracked the sky open, and I lay awake, heart racing the way it used to when I was small. I didn’t hear him come in — only felt the mattress dip, his fingers brushing my hair aside, his warmth as he pulled me close. He didn’t say a word. Neither of us did. But after that night, he always found me. And with every touch, every breath we shared in the dark, the years between us began to crumble. The girl who once loved him in secret was gone — and in her place stood a woman who finally saw the man behind the distance. And maybe, just maybe… he saw me too.

The first time I saw him, I knew something about him didn’t fit. Maybe it was the way he stood—too still, too controlled—or the way his sharp blue eyes seemed to scan everything, like he was memorizing every corner of my world. He wore a black suit that looked too polished for someone applying to be my bodyguard. My father thought he looked reliable. I thought he looked dangerous. I wasn’t wrong. Ever since my mother died, my father has wrapped me in layers of protection—guards, drivers, security systems, rules. I can’t take a step outside without someone watching me. I hate it. My mother was the brave one, the one who told me to live, not hide. I wear her brown leather jacket because it feels like armor—her strength stitched into every seam. But even that can’t protect me from him. He calls himself Knox. Short black hair, a few strands always falling into his face, like they’re mocking his attempts to stay in control. His voice is low, steady, and somehow he always manages to get under my skin. He keeps his distance, but I can feel him watching me—too closely. And when our eyes meet, something inside me sparks, sharp and terrifying. I don’t know his secrets yet. I don’t know that he didn’t come here to protect me. That he’s using me to get to my father—to the company, the inventions, the secrets that keep our family powerful. He moves through our home like a shadow, pretending to guard while he gathers information for people who would destroy us. But there’s something he didn’t plan for—me. Because somewhere between the silence, the arguments, and the moments when his gaze lingers too long, something shifts. I see the cracks in his armor, the man behind the lies. And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all. Because I should hate him. I should expose him. But every time he looks at me, I forget how to breathe.

The music from the ballroom pulsed faintly through the golden walls, a heartbeat of laughter and clinking glasses. I shouldn’t have been there as a guest. Not in a red, floor-length dress with a sweetheart neckline. Not with a gun strapped to my thigh. But Liam—my best friend, my sunshine in a world of shadows—had begged me to come. Tonight was his night. His new fashion line, his dream finally unveiled. I couldn’t say no, even knowing who else would be here. Ethan Ward. His older brother. The man whose name made even the fearless hesitate. I’d seen him before, always from a distance. Dark brown hair, short and neat. A beard that made his jawline even sharper. A black suit that fit like sin. His brown eyes were deep, unreadable, dangerous. When they found mine across the crowd, the air turned electric. My training said look away. My instincts said run. My heart—traitorous thing—skipped. Hours later, I moved silently through the corridor toward his suite. Each step brought me closer to answers. To danger. To him. The door opened beneath my gloved hand. The room smelled like whiskey and trouble. I was scanning the desk when voices approached. My pulse spiked. I dove behind the armchair. “Did you hear that?” The hem of my dress peeked out. I tugged it back, breath caught. Ethan’s voice rolled through the air—smooth, controlled. “It’s fine. I’ll check.” Moments later, the other man left. Silence settled—until it didn’t. He leaned against the chair. A shadow loomed over me. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” Before I could react, his hand caught my wrist, pulling me upright. My back hit the wall. His left hand braced beside my head; his right closed over mine—the one holding the gun. His face hovered inches from mine, eyes glinting with dark amusement. I could feel his breath, smell smoke and cologne. “Careful, love,” he murmured, voice low. “You might make me think you wanted to see me.” And God help me—part of me almost did.

I hadn’t meant to be in that studio, yet there I was, leaning against the doorframe, heart caught between fear and disbelief. The room was dimly lit, the wooden floor gleaming under the soft glow of hanging lights. Music thrummed through the air, raw and alive, unlike the rehearsed perfection I was used to. And there he was. He moved like the world had been waiting for him, every motion fluid yet charged with strength—the way his muscles flexed under skin inked with swirling tattoos. Brown curls fell into his face, and I felt the pull of those gray-brown eyes, stormy yet gentle, piercing me even without direct gaze. He was taller, broader than I remembered, but there was a grace that no height could overshadow. He was alive in a way I had forgotten to be. I stayed frozen, memories of that summer washing over me—the summer he had taught me to dance barefoot in a sunlit clearing, steadying me, whispering, “Come on, Honey, feel it.” I had never forgotten that name, or the way the world had seemed to hold its breath for us. That freedom, that joy, returned simply by watching him move. But now, he hesitated. When I asked for guidance, he shook his head. “Ballet isn’t my thing,” he murmured, arms crossed, a wall that hadn’t existed in the sunlight of my memory. I wanted to step forward, to remind him the boy I had danced with wasn’t gone—that laughter, freedom, and stolen moments could still exist even in a world of rules. I remembered how he had made me feel seen when no one else did, how the clearing and the sun had been ours alone. I realized I had carried that moment always—through pirouettes, forced smiles, nights of dancing without joy. And as our paths entwined again, I feared finding him might also mean losing him all over. Sometimes, love doesn’t stay—it comes to remind you of everything you once were before it breaks your heart.

I never believed in fate. Men like me couldn’t afford to. In the world I grew up in, you took what you could, kept what was yours, and never looked back. But then there was her. The first time I saw her, everything else went quiet—the business, the blood, the weight of my family’s name. She was supposed to be mine, not as a possession, but as the only light I ever had. I had the rings, the promises, the future. And then the accident stole it all. I still remember the smell of antiseptic in the hospital, the way her eyes searched me like a stranger. The doctors said the word that cut deeper than any knife—amnesia. She didn’t know me. Didn’t remember us. My family told me to let her go. They said she deserved peace, a life untouched by shadows like mine. I should’ve walked away for good. But I never did. I became a ghost in her world, a shadow at the edge of her life. Watching, waiting. Protecting her without her ever knowing. Because the truth is, I wasn’t afraid of the enemies I faced every day. I was afraid of failing her again, of not being there when it mattered. So I stayed hidden, even though every part of me ached to reach out, to remind her of what we lost. The rings never left my side—they were the last proof that once, she had been mine. Years passed. The city changed, but the hole she left in me didn’t. And then, one night, fate—or maybe punishment—crossed our paths again. I was driving through the neon-lit streets when I saw her. Surrounded by men who had no idea whose name I carried. No idea she was the one thing I’d kill for without hesitation. My hands tightened on the wheel. My pulse roared like it used to in the heat of a fight. For years, I had lived in silence, protecting her from afar. But in that moment, there was no choice. She wasn’t just someone from my past. She was still mine. And this time, nothing—not even memory itself—was going to take her away from me again.

Hogwarts had always been a place of opposites—light and shadow, courage and ambition, loyalty and pride. And perhaps nowhere did those opposites clash more fiercely than between him and me. Draco Malfoy was everything I was meant to despise. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. A name that carried weight through every corridor of the castle, a legacy of whispered power. He thrived in the role of the enemy, smirking from the shadows, his words designed to wound, his gaze daring me to strike back. To everyone else, he was untouchable—a Slytherin prince cloaked in ice, destined to follow the path carved for him long before he could choose his own. And yet, the cracks were there if one looked closely enough. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his posture stiffened whenever his father’s name was mentioned, the fleeting moments where his storm-gray eyes revealed something rawer, something unguarded. Moments he never intended anyone to see. It began with arguments, of course. Heated words traded in the glow of torchlight, his voice low and mocking, mine sharpened with defiance. But slowly, almost unwillingly, those confrontations turned into something else. A glance that lingered too long. A silence that carried weight. A night beneath the stars where neither of us could walk away. What do you do when your enemy becomes the only person who makes you feel seen? When the boy you swore to hate is the same boy who slips his cloak around your shoulders in the cold, or presses a letter into your hand that says the words he cannot speak aloud? I never meant to care. He never meant to change. And yet somewhere between defiance and desire, we found ourselves colliding—two constellations on the same dark sky, burning brighter the closer we drew. This is not the story of how we stopped fighting. It is the story of how we fell, despite it.

From the first day I walked the corridors of Hogwarts, I sensed him, even when he never looked my way. Tom Riddle moved with effortless grace, dark robes flowing silently, grey eyes cold yet aware of everything around him. In class, he remained distant, composed, his attention seemingly elsewhere—but I could feel a quiet presence just beyond my reach. Whenever he was near, a subtle tension stirred in me, a brush of awareness that made my heart race, even when his gaze never met mine. When he passed me in the hall, he did not acknowledge me. His eyes never turned, his steps never faltered. Yet the faintest change in his posture, the subtle pause when he thought I wasn’t looking—these gestures I could not mistake. I felt his attention like a shadow following me, constant and patient. I could not catch his eyes, but I knew they were there, quietly studying, silently protective. One day, danger came unexpectedly, and I felt it before I saw it—a shield I could not name. A misfired spell, a sudden threat—and someone was there, unseen, intervening with precise care. Though he did not reveal himself, my heart knew it was him. He had been watching, guarding me without recognition, leaving only the comfort of safety in his silent wake. The thought thrilled and unsettled me, a secret warmth I could neither explain nor resist. Even in his silence, he left traces of care everywhere. I felt the presence of someone who would not let harm touch me, who observed and protected without asking for acknowledgment. It was intimate, tender in ways words could not capture. And though our eyes never met openly, the knowledge that he watched, that he cared without showing it, became an unspoken bond. In the quiet halls of Hogwarts, he was always there—silent, vigilant, quietly devoted—an unseen guardian who stirred my heart with every measured step, a presence both mysterious and achingly close.

Ever since I was little, I dreamed of leaving Bunnyburrow to become the first rabbit on the Zootopia Police Department. Everyone said it was impossible—“Too small, too soft, too naive”—but I never doubted myself. I trained harder than anyone, aced every exam, and ran every obstacle course faster than the foxes and wolves. I was supposed to be the best, the shining example of what a human who could transform into a rabbit could achieve in this city of predators and bustling streets. Reality hit hard. Chief Bogo didn’t care about dreams, only rules and appearances. Instead of chasing big cases, I spent my days writing tickets for illegally parked cars. I wanted to scream—but didn’t. Not yet. One day, I crossed paths with Nick Wilde and Finnick—the fox and fennec who made breaking the law look like art. Another day, I saw the Duke of Pitzbühl slipping out of a florist’s shop with a bouquet. I tried to chase him, heart racing—but Bogo scolded me for leaving my post. I swallowed my frustration. Then she came—Mrs. Otterton, frantic. Her husband had vanished. I volunteered immediately. Bogo only allowed it because Bellwether intervened, giving me forty-eight hours to find Otterton—or leave the force forever. I tracked down Nick Wilde, a sly, green-eyed human who could transform into a fox, red and black hair, green shirt, purple-striped tie, beige trousers. Infuriating, charming, and essential to the case. I blackmailed him into helping—my only option. Zootopia is alive with predators and prey, lies and truths, danger and dreams. And I, a human from Bunnyburrow who can become a rabbit, am determined to prove that courage—and maybe a little cunning—can turn even the smallest paws into something unstoppable.

The corridors of Hogwarts always whispered about him. Dark brown, wavy hair fell in loose strands over his deep brown eyes. A faint scar cut down the bridge of his nose, another slashed through his brow—marks that only heightened his dangerous allure. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform with effortless defiance: white shirt, green-and-silver tie, beige cardigan, and a long, deep-green Slytherin coat with the serpent crest. His presence was magnetic and unnerving. He spoke in clipped, cutting tones, smirked like he knew every secret, and made enemies as easily as breathing. Unfortunately, I was his favorite target, since I often got in his way and stood up for others. After our latest argument—loud enough to make even a ghost pause—Dumbledore decided we needed to “learn to work together.” His solution? A joint mission. Professor Sprout required a rare plant from the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid warned us of the dangers, Fang trotting alongside as if his wagging tail could soften them. But the real test was Dumbledore’s riddle: I grow where others cannot breathe, deep beneath mirrors, by waves received. In the silent realm where voices sing, guarded by those in darkness cling. I do not glow, yet heal in need— what am I, and where do I lead? The clues led us to a lake, black as ink beneath the moon. Without hesitation, Mattheo stepped in, ignoring my protest, and vanished beneath the surface. Then I saw it—a dark silhouette gliding below. Merfolk. Dangerous, territorial, rumored guardians of the plant we sought. My pulse raced. I scanned the surface, but he didn’t reappear. Panic gripped me. No one at Hogwarts knew why water tightened my chest, why lakes churned my stomach—why my best friend in the Muggle world had drowned, and I had been too late. Tonight, none of that mattered. I had a choice: stay on shore and let him drown… or step into the water to save him.

I stumbled through the twisted undergrowth, breath ragged, arm burning where the Bandersnatch’s claws had raked me. Its growl still echoed, though I prayed I had outrun it. My heart hammered, yet the forest pressed in with a silence almost worse than the chase. This place—this impossible place—was not unknown. I had heard of it in the voice of my younger sister. Alice. She spoke of a rabbit in a waistcoat, a cruel queen, creatures that vanished into air. I had smiled, nodded, but never believed. They were her dreams. I was the elder; I trusted reason. And yet here I was. In the world I once denied. Something watched me. The weight of its gaze prickled between my shoulders. High in the branches gleamed turquoise stripes across a sleek grey coat. A cat. Its luminous eyes glinted with amusement—then it was gone. A voice drifted close, smoky and low: "It seems you’ve had an encounter with something that has rather nasty claws, hm?" My pulse quickened. I turned—and suddenly he was there. A man, taller than me, warmth radiating from his body. Black hair streaked with turquoise, eyes blue and green, faintly glowing. Tattoos, alive with starlight, curled along his neck and hands. His smile was mischief itself. “Let me have a look,” he murmured, playful yet commanding. “It must be cleaned by someone who knows the art of vanishing… otherwise it will fester.” I drew back, clutching my arm. “No, thank you. I’ll manage.” I turned to leave, but in a blink he stood before me again, blocking the path. He pulled a folded cloth from his coat. “At least,” he teased, “let me bind the wound.” His touch was gentle, the sting easing under steady hands. Yet it was his gaze—bright with riddles—that unsettled me more than pain. For the first time, I thought of Alice not as a dreamer, but as a bearer of truth. And I feared I might never again escape the world I had refused to believe.

The forest was alive with the sound of our breathless flight—branches whipping against my arms, the pounding of hooves, and the shouts of Miraz’s soldiers behind us. My sword felt heavy in my hand, though I would not loosen my grip. Beside me, Caspian urged me onward, his dark hair plastered to his brow, his eyes sharp with urgency. We had been running for hours, ever since the ambush near the river. The night air smelled of pine and danger. Then I heard it—the horn. Caspian pulled it from the leather pouch at his side, the one Professor Cornelius had given him before we fled. I had heard the stories, as every Telmarine child had, about the golden age of Narnia and Queen Susan’s horn that could summon help from anywhere in the world. But hearing its call in the dead of night… it felt like a thread of legend had been pulled into my life. The sound seemed to tremble in the air, both fierce and beautiful. We escaped into the deeper woods, the soldiers’ pursuit fading into the distance, replaced by the quiet hum of the forest. My muscles ached, yet a strange energy kept me moving. Then, ahead, I saw them—four figures emerging from the shadows as if they had stepped straight out of a dream. Caspian tensed, and before I could speak, steel rang against steel. He and the taller boy with the fair hair clashed fiercely, their movements quick and unyielding. A girl’s voice cut through the fight—Lucy, I would later learn—sharp with command. The two broke apart, their chests heaving. The fair-haired boy’s eyes swept over Caspian, recognition dawning. But when his gaze shifted, it landed on me—and lingered. Blue eyes, clear as the summer sky, locked with mine, and in that moment, the forest faded. My heart stumbled in my chest, unsteady, as if something deep inside me recognized him before my mind could. I forced myself to breathe, but it was already too late.

The wind off the coast was sharper than I expected, tasting of salt and secrets. Pebbles crunched under my boots as I wandered farther from the old estate, leaving the glow of its windows behind. Inside, Lucy, Edmund, Susan, and Peter sat by the fire, voices weaving a tapestry of stories I had heard a dozen times—tales of talking beasts, silver seas, and a great lion whose roar could shake the world. I’d always smiled and listened, half-believing, half-wondering if they were just fragments of childhood that they refused to let go. But tonight, something about the air felt different. The tide moved with an urgency I couldn’t explain, the horizon a restless blur of dark clouds. I stood on the cliff edge, staring at the place where sky met water, and thought of the king they often spoke of—Caspian, with his brown hair and sea-steady gaze. He was a myth to me, a name in a fireside tale. The wind rose suddenly, sharp enough to steal my breath. Far out at sea, the clouds curled inward, forming a spiral of green and gold light. The ground shifted beneath my feet—wet rock, a misstep—and then I was falling, swallowed by the roar of the storm. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a wooden deck that swayed gently under me. Above, pale sails strained against the wind, and the air was warm with the scent of salt and sun. A figure knelt beside me, his shadow cutting across my vision. “You’re awake,” he said, voice low and steady. “I am Caspian… King of Narnia.” My breath caught. I knew that name. I knew his friends. As I moved, my hand brushed something unexpected in my coat pocket. Surprised, I drew it out—a small silver horn, its surface etched with curling patterns. My eyes widened as Susan’s words returned to me, as clear as if she were standing there: If ever you find yourself in true need, blow this… and the four Kings of old will come to your aid.

I never liked being the center of attention. Crowds made me shrink into the background, and bright lights made my heart race for all the wrong reasons. But tonight, my sister dragged me to a fashion event I didn’t want to be at. Someone from her dance team had dropped out last minute, and I was roped in to fill the spot. She had dreamed of being discovered by a model agent here for years—she wanted this night to change everything. Me? I just wanted to survive it. My reddish-brown hair felt heavy on my shoulders as I paced nervously backstage. Green eyes scanning the room, trying not to look like I was about to panic. Because honestly, I was terrified. Dancing was my passion, but performing in front of all these strangers—especially at a high-profile event—felt like stepping into a storm I wasn’t ready for. Then, right before I was supposed to go on, I bumped into him. He was impossible to miss. Tall, muscular, with short brown hair that casually fell into his face and deep brown eyes that seemed to look right through me. He had that effortless model charm, the kind of presence that pulls you in without trying. His smile? It wasn’t just attractive—it was magnetic, almost magical. I didn’t even know who he was at first. All I knew was that my breath caught, and suddenly I wanted to disappear. So I turned and ran. But he caught up to me. His voice was calm, warm, gentle—everything I wasn’t feeling. “Hey, you’ve got this,” he said. “Just breathe. You’re stronger than you think.” And somehow, just hearing that made the storm inside me calm, even if only a little. That night, under the dazzling lights and with the eyes of the world on me, something shifted. A small spark of courage took hold, and I realized maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as invisible as I thought.

The highway stretched ahead in a blur of gray asphalt and fading daylight, each passing mile pulling me closer to a place I’d sworn I’d never return to. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, as the weight in the seat beside me drew my eyes. A worn leather satchel. Inside, folded neatly in a lawyer’s envelope, lay my grandfather’s will—and the letter he’d left for me. I hadn’t dared to open it yet. Not while my chest still ached with the thought of him being gone. It had been years since the accident. Years since the sound of screeching tires and twisting metal ended more than just my career. My father had blamed my grandfather for everything—for letting me race, for teaching me to push past fear—and with one furious command, he’d forbidden me from ever setting foot on the circuit again. I’d obeyed, if only because facing the track without my grandfather by my side had seemed impossible. But time changes everything. Or maybe grief does. As the skyline of my hometown rose ahead, sharp against the summer sky, a flash of color caught my attention. A billboard loomed over the main road—a man leaning against a gleaming Formula One car. Black hair fell carelessly across his brow, tattoos winding over the muscles of his forearms, and those deep brown eyes seemed to look right through you. I knew exactly who he was. The team’s star driver. The golden boy of the grid. Fast, fearless, and followed everywhere by a trail of women and headlines. I’d done my homework before coming back—reviewed every driver’s stats, studied their strengths and weaknesses. I knew his lap times, his risk-taking, the way he thrived under pressure. And I knew he would hate having a new boss—especially one who had walked away from racing. For years, I’d helped my grandfather from a distance, working PR to keep the team’s image intact. But this time, I wasn’t coming back as the girl in the shadows. This time, I was coming home to take the wheel.

I sat in the back pew of the old stone church, hands clenched in my lap, my heart a knot of silent ache. The air smelled of roses and candle wax, soft voices echoing off the walls. He was getting married today. Eric. He stood at the altar, tall and steady, light from the stained glass casting colors across his sharp jawline and broad shoulders. His short black hair—still messy in that perfect, careless way—fell slightly into his face. I saw the ink on his neck, curling beneath his collar. Bold. Unapologetic. Like him. My breath caught. He looked beautiful. Untouchable. Gone. We’d grown up together—family barbecues, snowball fights, endless summer nights. Our lives had always been intertwined. But he was my best friend’s older brother. He was never mine. And yet, I had loved him for as long as I could remember. He never knew. I never told him. I was too afraid to lose even the small pieces of him I had. I should be happy. I should smile, clap, pretend this moment wasn’t breaking me. But my chest felt hollow. My heart cracked in silence. Beneath the sleeve of my dress, my fingers brushed the bracelet on my wrist. A thin leather band with a simple charm, dulled with time. Eric had given it to me before he went to college. “It’ll protect you - just like i will,” he’d said. “Always.” Back then, every word from him felt like magic. I closed my eyes, traced the charm. A warmth pulsed beneath my skin. The church blurred. The voices faded. Light swallowed everything. When I opened my eyes, the air was warmer. My hands were smaller. My dress had changed. The bracelet sparkled, untouched by time. I was back. Back before the wedding. Back before the goodbye. Back when I still had a chance. And this time… I wouldn’t stay silent.

Hidden behind the oldest building on campus, past an arch of crumbling stone and tangled vines, lay a garden no one remembered. It wasn’t on any map, and when people passed, their eyes slid over the gate like it wasn’t there. But I saw it. I always had. I found it in my first semester—though now, I wonder if it found me. I’d followed a crow into the fog, drawn by something I couldn’t explain. Since then, it had become mine. My secret place. My stillness. Nature had taken it back—wildflowers burst through cracked paths, trees arched like guardians, and silence settled like an old, sacred spell. Time didn’t move there. It breathed. At the center stood him. The statue. He was carved from pale stone—tall, powerful, still. His hair swept across his brow, and even with closed eyes, he seemed aware. His face held sorrow so deep, I sometimes forgot he wasn’t real. I sketched him often, again and again. The way sunlight warmed his shoulders, how moss curled along his arms like memory. I didn’t know who he was. No one did. But that night—under a sky full of stars—something changed. I sat alone in the dark, thoughts drifting. Then I saw it—a shooting star. Without thinking, I whispered, “I wish you were alive.” Five words. And the garden held its breath. Above me, the stars flared—brighter, sharper, like they’d heard me. Like they’d been waiting. I didn’t know it then, but I was the Chosen. The only one who could wake what had long been cursed to sleep. When I turned back, the statue glowed faintly. Warmth stirred in the air. Cracks shimmered across his skin. And then he moved. His eyes opened—not stone, but light. Stars behind a storm. And he looked at me not with confusion—but recognition. As if he had always known me. Far above, the gods stirred. I had made a wish. And destiny had heard.

They were never supposed to fall in love. But I did. I’m the daughter of one of the most powerful and relentlessly guarded men in the country — a man who built his empire alone, brick by brutal brick, hiding behind silence, secrets, and an army of loyalty. And him — he was born into that army. The son of my father’s most trusted bodyguard. Trained from the moment he could stand to protect me from a world that never played fair. Two worlds — privilege and duty — under the same roof. We weren’t meant to belong to each other. But somehow, we always did. From bruised knees on marble floors to hushed laughter in guarded corridors, we grew up side by side. He learned my moods like weather patterns. I memorized his silences like songs. And somewhere along the line, without warning or permission, friendship began to shift into something far more dangerous. He’s tall — strong in a way that draws stares and ends conversations. His brown hair always falls into his face, casting soft shadows over eyes that flicker between gray and brown depending on the light… and the secrets he’s trying not to show me. And that smile — that stupid, breathtaking smile — it's a weapon of its own. But this… whatever this is between us, it isn’t allowed. Not in my father’s world. Not in his. Loyalty comes first. Rules are everything. And love — love between us — isn’t just forbidden. It’s treason. And the worst part? I’m not sure I care anymore.

The rain fell in cold, heavy drops from the lead-gray sky, mixing with the blood that spread across the asphalt, darkening the fabric of her dress. He knelt in the street, his face turned upward—as if accusing the heavens. In his arms, she lay—lifeless, still warm with the fading echo of a life he should have saved. His hands trembled. He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her skin was soft. Her lips, slightly parted, as if she might speak—as if there were still time. But that was the last lie. “I am a god,” he thought, staring at the peace on her face, so at odds with her brutal end. “Born of storm, light, and time—yet I could not protect her.” He was too late. Again. What was eternity worth, if it could not stop death? If divine power shattered against human fragility? His blood boiled, demanded meaning—but her eyes remained closed. And in that moment, he would’ve given up immortality, just to stay with her. Years later. Rain fell again—cool, salt-scented. She pulled her coat tight and stepped toward the cliff’s edge. The sea village below was rough and quiet. A place to start over. Then she heard it: a low, thunderous engine. She turned. A black motorcycle faced her, its headlight cutting through the rain. On it sat a man—black hair soaked, golden eyes locked on her like a memory found. Tattoos covered his forearms—marks of love and grief. Her. A shiver ran through her—heat and chill, recognition. Her heart knew him before her mind could. She blinked. Then smiled. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. “It’s you again.” She returned in every life. And in every one, he lost her. But not this time. He swore it. Even as fate watched. And remembered.