The invitation was waiting in my mailbox this morning. Before I even opened the envelope, I knew exactly what it would say. My best friend from childhood was getting married. As if on cue, my phone rang only minutes later. Lucy. Breathless, excited, asking me if I would be her maid of honor—and, almost as an afterthought, whether I had a date. I said yes with a heavy heart. Because yes meant more than dresses and speeches. It meant the engagement party, the bachelorette night, the wedding day. And it meant seeing him again. Her brother. My ex - Luca. A short while later, I was sitting on the bench in front of the boxing ring, waiting for him to notice me. Sweat-darkened strands of his short brown hair clung to his forehead, casting shadows over his green eyes. The light caught on his bare torso, making his skin gleam as he moved. When the fight ended, he leaned against the ropes, a towel already in his hand. An amused smile flickered across his face as he dried himself off. “Your brother isn’t here,” he said. The invitation lay heavy in my palm. I forced myself to look away before standing and walking toward him. I lifted the envelope into his line of sight. He stepped out of the ring, landing beside me. We had known each other forever. Shared friend groups, shared summers, shared memories that clung like old photographs. Mattheo is my older brother’s best friend. They trained at the same boxing club, and back in school they had come up with a way to earn some extra money—a service. They offered themselves as companions. Fake dates. Listeners. Problem-solvers. Whatever someone needed. All that time, he had been my first crush. Untouchable. Forbidden. And now, years later, I needed that service. The very one Mattheo and Max had abandoned long ago. The one he had sworn he would never use on me. And yet, as he stood there beside me, I realized I was about to ask him to break a promise that had once protected us both.

Sunlight slipped through the curtains, tracing warm lines across my skin. I stayed still, eyes closed, because the strongest warmth didn’t come from the morning—it came from his nearness. The sheets rustled beside me, anchoring me to this moment as my thoughts drifted. Memories of childhood flooded in uninvited. Nathaniel had always been out of reach. Dark brown hair casting shadows over gray eyes that made my heart stumble whenever they met mine. He was my older brother’s best friend, the constant presence at the edges of my life. From the moment we met, my heart was his. As a child, I wished for impossible things—that my first love experiences would lead back to him. He understood me without words, sensed my worries before I named them. When my brother wasn’t around, he became my shield—ending arguments, stopping me before I did something reckless, showing me the line between right and wrong. He was a boxer, fighting in underground matches I was never allowed to see. All I knew were the scars on his skin and the darkness they tried to hide from me. Back then, it was only a crush. Love felt like a word too heavy for a child. Growing up changed everything. I became a woman who showed her feelings openly—confident, charming, flirtatious. I tested his limits the way he once teased mine. But he never crossed the line… until that one night. My eyes fluttered open to his hotel room. My head throbbed—I had drunk too much. My brother was getting married, and he was the best man. I remembered the glances other women gave him, the happy couple, and the ache in my chest—not jealousy, but loving someone who kept his distance. One glass after another, until he took it from my hand and led me away. I told him I loved him. And then—had I fallen asleep in his arms? Now, with morning light warming my skin, I didn’t know if this was a beginning… or the moment everything would finally fall apart.

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 sunrays warmed my skin, birds were chirping, and dust swirled in the golden light of the afternoon. It might have been idyllic, if not for the restraints digging into my wrists. An assignment I had imagined very differently. Now I sat tied to a chair in a warehouse, forcing my puls to be steady. My thoughts circled relentlessly around the mission—around him. I closed my eyes and focused on the sounds. Voices. Footsteps. A distant gunshot. More steps, closer now. Then the door was kicked in. I opened my eyes as he dropped to his knees before me, the world narrowing to the space between us. He was taller than me, broader, built like someone who had learned early how to survive with his fists. Scars marked his skin like a silent map of battles fought and won. Dark hair fell into his face, and when his gaze lifted to mine, I met blue-gray eyes. Eyes that missed nothing. Including me. I reminded myself who I was. Undercover agent. Observer. Protector, if necessary. Never a lover. In his world, marriages were alliances, contracts written in blood and power. The most dangerous families bound themselves together through vows, becoming untouchable through unity. And this one was my way in. He did not know what his future wife looked like. He did not know her voice, her habits, her fears. And so, for now, I was her. The rules were clear: do not let the lines blur. Do not let emotions take root. Do not let my cover slip. Before we could grow close—before suspicion could bloom—my mission had to be completed. And when the time came, perhaps a true heir would take my place. Yet as his hands reached for the restraints, steady and careful, I felt something dangerous stir beneath my resolve. And I knew then: the hardest part would not be deceiving him. It would be protecting him—from his enemies, from the truth… and from my own heart.

It was a rain-soaked day when I wandered through the streets of the Muggle city where I had grown up, never fully belonging as a half-blood. Rain hammered against the asphalt, the wind howled through the streets, and icy air cut into my skin. Lost in thought, I stepped off the curb to cross the road. Then I heard it—the piercing scream of tires. I turned, my heart lurching, and saw a car racing toward me, far too fast to stop. For one terrifying moment, everything froze: the headlights, the certainty of impact, the sharp taste of fear. Then, impossibly, the car came to a sudden halt just before reaching me—too abrupt, too perfect to be mere chance. Shaking, I stumbled back onto the sidewalk. My heart pounded as I lifted my gaze to the other side of the street. A young man stood there, watching me. Short brown hair fell into his face, rain dripping from the strands. He wore a black coat, a green sweater, and a green-and-grey striped tie. Our eyes met briefly, and I felt something unnameable settle deep inside my chest. People gathered around me, asking if I was all right. When I looked again, the stranger was gone. Time passed, and I arrived at Hogwarts. There, whispers followed me through ancient corridors, all carrying the same name—Riddle. A family known for power, fear, and darkness. With that name came realization. Tom Riddle was the stranger who had saved my life. Even as he ignored me, passing without a glance, he was always there. A constant presence, a shadow lingering just out of reach, waiting for the moment it would step into the light. Everyone knew the truth: once he entered your life, he would only leave if he chose to.

Winter had always been woven into my childhood, each memory etched with frost and firelight, snowflakes and the scent of pine. I remember the cold biting at my cheeks, the warmth of the hearth wrapping around me, and the aroma of cinnamon and baked goods drifting through the house. Lights blinked on every windowsill, laughter floated through the air, echoing off rooftops blanketed in snow. These memories followed me into the night, appearing in dreams like fragments of a world both real and imagined. I would find myself in a city buried under snow, streets glowing beneath the aurora. And there, always, was a man with white hair and beard, a gentle smile that felt like home, clothed in the familiar red and green of Christmas. Reindeer pawed at the frost, elves busied themselves with wrapping gifts, and yet a question lingered: how much of this was memory, and how much imagination? My father had been a stranger, alive only through my mother’s stories—she loved Christmas with a fervor that painted our days in wonder, and even though she had passed, her words and joy lingered. Sitting at the window, snow dancing in the night wind, stars flickering like tiny lanterns, I would close my eyes, letting sleep take me. The snow would whirl faster, scents and sounds of my past rushing past me, tangible and fleeting. Then, time shifted. My memories became reality. I returned to the city of my childhood, buried deep in snow, guided by the man I had always believed to be the keeper of my dreams—my father, the Christmas figure of legend. And by his side, the elf who had worked closely with him, now to teach me, to help me step into the life he had left behind. The question that had haunted me as a child took form: could I follow in his footsteps and bring the magic of my memories into the living world?

I come from a family that lives and breathes the streets—my brother runs the crew now, a name whispered with respect and fear. I walked away from all of it. I turned my back on the life I was born into, on the blood and loyalty that defined every step I took, and I chose a different path: the police academy. A new life. A new future. But the past… the past doesn’t just vanish. I still keep in touch with my brother, but I’ve cut ties with the crew’s operations. I’ve learned that survival doesn’t mean nothing catches up to you; it means you learn to carry it quietly. Now, I begin my training in one of the city’s police departments. I have to hide everything I am, everything I know. I know the streets—the crews that strike fear into the city, their names, their moves. I know how to fight, how to anticipate, how to vanish when danger comes calling. That knowledge is a double-edged sword. I can read situations faster than most officers, react before anyone else even understands the threat, and navigate undercover operations with instincts honed in alleyways and abandoned warehouses. And yet, one misstep, one hint too many, and it could all unravel. On my first day, I'm assigned an instructor who feels more like a test than a mentor. Tall, muscular, dark hair, piercing blue eyes—he's known for being the toughest of them all. He constantly challenges me, notices the flaws in my facade, and I sense he suspects I'm hiding something. He doesn't trust me—not yet—but when the threats materialize, he's the one who's got my back. And then it happens. The sudden, sharp crack of gunfire pierces the warehouse, the echo reverberating off the walls, fraying at my nerves. Every instinct I've suppressed erupts at once. The reality of who I am and who I want to be collide. The shots that reverberated through the warehouse pulled me back into a reality I can't escape.

It was winter, and the snow fell in soft, swirling flakes around me as I rode my horse through the silent forest. I had fled the village at dawn, longing for a moment of stillness, far from the restless bustle that had taken hold of everyone—especially my stepmother and my stepsister. Ever since the royal announcement that the prince was searching for a bride and would host a grand ball, they had done nothing but argue over invitations, fabrics, and shoes, desperate to be noticed. My own mother had died many years ago, and though my stepmother had stepped into her place, her heart had never warmed to me. When my father passed away last year, she became the unquestioned mistress of our house, and I found myself shrinking further into the quiet corners of my own life. At the edge of the forest, I dismounted, hoping not to startle the young deer standing only a few steps away between the trees. I watched as snow drifted around its delicate form, the world holding its breath for that fleeting, magical moment. But then a branch snapped, snow crunched, and the deer’s ears twitched in alarm. Three men emerged from the shadows. The first sprinted across the clearing toward me—dark-haired, dressed in a deep blue coat, a feathered hat tilted over his brow. In his hands he carried a crossbow, raised and aimed directly at the deer. Without thinking, I bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, and hurled it at him. The snowball struck cleanly, knocking his hat from his head. The deer bolted into the woods, vanishing like a sigh on the wind. But now the men’s attention was no longer on their quarry—it was entirely on me. My heart jumped. I spun around, gathered my skirt, and ran, the snow swallowing the sound of my footsteps as I fled deeper into the forest.

I stand by the frost-covered window, my breath fogging the glass, and look out over the frozen lake. The trees are heavy with snow, their branches bowing under the weight, and the world beyond seems suspended in silence, wrapped in white. The cold seeps into my bones, yet my mind drifts elsewhere—back to another winter, another time, to him. I see his smile, the dark hair that falls across his forehead, the way he laughs as he takes my hand and leads me across the ice. His hands in mine were a tether, a promise of safety, while the snow swirls around us in lazy, glittering spirals. We did not notice the ice beginning to crack beneath our feet, a subtle groan masked by our laughter. Then, instinctively, he pushes me aside, pulling me to safety just as the ice gives way and the cold water claims him. I close my eyes and feel that winter all over again, a winter after his death, and yet I feel closer to him than ever. His laughter rides the wind, his voice whispers my name, and I feel his presence, guarding me as he always did. But it is only memory, a ghost of the man I loved, who once saved me out of love itself. The season returns, and with it the stories the villagers tell—tales of the winter creatures, spirits born of frost and snow, of cold that bites deeper than the sharpest wind. The winters grow harsher, the snow falls thicker, and one name is spoken in hushed, reverent tones: Jack. The Winter Keeper. White hair, eyes like frozen lakes, winter incarnate. I have always struggled to believe such tales, dismissing them as old superstition. Yet tonight, I see not just my memories but a figure who matches the stories. He stands in the moonlight, at the edge of the frozen pond, a phantom conjured from the legends. My heart hammers with uncertainty—does my mind play tricks, or do spirits truly walk among us?

I have always known my destiny lies beneath the waves, in the endless blue of my father’s kingdom. I am the Sea King's daughter, destined to one day rule the oceans, to command the currents and the creatures that dwell in the deep. But before that day can come, I must master the gifts that have been denied me, the powers that both seduce and destroy. My song, the one that can lure creatures to their doom, the one that brings death to those who wish harm, remains a secret locked within me. And the other—walking upon land as a human, blending with the world above the waves—is a dream that has never been mine to claim. Yet curiosity has always been my companion. One afternoon, restless and aching to touch the sunlit world above, I leave my kingdom. I glide through the water, my scales catching the sunlight, and find myself upon a rock that juts from the shore. The wind tangles in my hair as I watch a ship moored nearby, its crew dragging crates onto the sand. I whisper the words of the ancient spell, letting my fingers ripple through the water. A golden haze envelops me, a gentle heat that pulls my body from the form of the sea into the shape of the world I have only dreamed of touching. Legs take the place of tail, skin warms under the sun, and I am… human. Then I see him. A man walking along the beach, dark waves of hair falling around his face, eyes as blue as the deep ocean. He stops, his gaze drawn to the sea and to me perched upon the rock. Something unearthly stirs in him as he begins to walk toward me, his feet brushing the shallow waves. I start to sing, my voice trembling with both fear and longing. And he stops. Not at the edge, not in awe, but with something in his eyes that freezes me—the certainty that he sees me. My heart stutters, knowing my secret is no longer mine alone. The spell has failed to hide me; he knows. The man, stranger yet not, knows who I am. And in that instant, I realize that my life, my fate, has just collided with his.

I never belonged to his world. Theirs was a realm of marble floors and crystal chandeliers, of last names that carried weight and whispers that followed wherever they went. Mine was quiet, ordinary, unremarkable — a life that passed unnoticed, hidden in the background. And yet, somehow, our paths crossed. Before him, my world had been small and quiet. I preferred the corners of rooms, the library’s forgotten aisles, the safety of invisibility. He lived in the center of everything—captain of the school team, the heartbeat of every party, the kind of person people followed without question. We were never meant to cross paths. And yet, somehow, we did. It started with a conversation that lasted longer than it should have, a glance that lingered too long. Slowly, against reason, our worlds began to merge. I learned the truth behind his charming smiles, the loneliness that came with his family’s expectations. He told me he felt seen for the first time. And I—foolishly, completely—fell for him. For a while, it was perfect. But perfection never lasts. His messages grew shorter, his eyes distant. I heard stories from his friends—about parties, about other girls—and each one chipped away at what we had built. Eventually, I stopped waiting for answers. I convinced myself to move on. Until tonight. The phone rang just as the rain began to fall. It was his sister, her voice trembling with panic. “Please,” she said, “you have to come. It’s about Aiden.” And before I could think, before I could remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t care, I was already on my way to the Sinclair estate—back to the place where it all began, and where, perhaps, it would all end.

I’ve spent half my life on stage with my two best friends, the three of us standing under blinding lights, singing into the dark where thousands of faces blur together. We grew from tiny rehearsal rooms and cheap microphones to sold-out venues and screaming fans. And somewhere between our first shaky rehearsal and our first world tour, he slipped quietly into our story. He was never supposed to be more than the manager’s son—the tall, quiet boy his father dragged into the studio to “keep him occupied.” Back then he had messy black hair, that one annoying strand falling into his bright blue eyes, and a camera he barely knew how to hold. But he watched us. Really watched us. Our nerves, our excitement, our arguments, our dreams. He knew our strengths before anyone else did, and our weaknesses even better. Now, years later, he’s no longer just “the manager’s son.” He’s our photographer, our videographer, our unofficial fourth member. He follows us from backstage hallways to tour buses, capturing the moments no one else sees—our shaky hands before shows, our exhausted laughter afterward, the parts of us the world never gets to witness. And somewhere between his quiet compliments, his steady presence, and the way he always finds my eyes in the crowd, something changed. At least for me. Whether it changed for him too… I’m not sure. Because he’s surrounded by fans now—girls who scream his name, grab his attention, pose for pictures like they already belong to him. And every time a photo surfaces of him smiling beside some pretty woman, something in me twists. Is she a client? A stranger? Someone he’s secretly seeing? Whatever is growing between us feels fragile. Dangerous. Something we can’t let anyone know about. After all, he’s the manager’s son. A relationship between us would be labeled unprofessional, reckless—maybe even career-ending. It feels like the most real thing in my life, but I have no idea if he feels the same.

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.

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.