You’d like her,” he says quietly, stirring his coffee even though the sugar’s already dissolved. “She’s… easy. No drama. She remembers the small things.” You force a smile. “That’s nice.” His face softens in a way that hurts to look at. “She waits up for me after late meetings. Makes sure I eat. She tells me she’s proud of me all the time.” Proud. The word lands heavy between you. “She sounds perfect,” you mumble. “She is.” He leans back in his chair. “It’s different with her. Stable.” You laugh once under your breath. “So that’s what we were? Unstable?” He doesn’t answer immediately, and somehow that’s worse. Outside, rain taps softly against the café windows. You remember when both of you used to run through storms because you couldn’t afford cabs. “You know,” you say, voice quieter now, “we were better together.” His jaw tightens. “No,” he says flatly. “We weren’t.” Your chest aches at how fast he answered. “We loved each other.” “Love wasn’t enough.” “It used to be for you.” He looks away, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “You don’t get it.” “Then explain it to me.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “At least she treats me like I’m somebody.” The sentence cuts deeper than you expect. You stare at him for a second before whispering, “But would she treat you like that if you were nobody?” Silence. A dangerous kind. Then suddenly he stands, chair scraping harshly against the floor. “Nobody loved me when I was nobody!” People turn to look. His breathing is uneven now, eyes glassy with years of swallowed anger. “I was killing myself working three jobs,” he says, voice breaking despite how hard he tries to hold it steady. “I was exhausted all the time, terrified all the time, and all I ever heard was what I wasn’t. What I couldn’t give you. What I couldn’t become.” Your eyes burn instantly. “That’s not fair—” “No,” he snaps. “What wasn’t fair was feeling invisible every single day.”

She rolls her eyes at his umbrella etiquette he thinks her accent is adorable she keeps calling in pretty boy his ears go red every single time The Boy Name: Theodore “Theo” Whitmore Age: 24 From: London Golden-blond hair that’s always slightly messy no matter how neatly he dresses. Pale green eyes, soft sweaters, rolled-up sleeves, silver watch his father gave him. Smells faintly like cedarwood and expensive cologne. Theo works at a tiny luxury boutique tucked between cafés and bookstores in Covent Garden. He’s the eldest of four siblings, so he naturally slips into taking care of everyone without realizing it. Carries shopping bags for strangers. Walks on the outside of the pavement. Remembers how people take their tea. Very London-boy coded: “Love” and “darling” without flirting dry humor ridiculously polite the prettiest accent imaginable secretly exhausted from always being dependable He falls first. Immediately. But quietly. The Girl A tourist from Boston. Loud laugh, fast talker, probably wearing sneakers while everyone else in London is dressed elegantly. She gets lost constantly but refuses help. Came to London for “one peaceful trip” and somehow keeps running into the same blond man. She thinks he’s just being polite. He is absolutely losing his mind. Rain drizzled over Covent Garden as she stood outside the boutique, staring at a paper map like it had personally offended her. “Okay,” she muttered in her Boston accent, “either London streets are cursed or I’m stupid.”

The palace corridors were not meant for running. And yet, there you were—skirts gathered in your hands, laughter echoing off marble walls as two of your ladies-in-waiting chased after you, equally breathless. “I refuse to have a boring night,” you declared, skidding to a stop outside the grand hall. “If I must endure lessons, dinners, and ten different rules about posture, then I deserve one perfect evening.” “And what exactly does that involve, Your Highness?” one of them asked, trying to catch her breath. You turned dramatically, eyes sparkling. “A sleepover.” They stared. “With sweets,” you continued. “And music. And absolutely no guards hovering every five seconds—” “And how,” the other interrupted, “do you plan to make that happen in a palace that barely allows you to breathe freely?” A slow, mischievous smile spread across your face. “We cheat.” Not long after, the heavy doors of the lesser court creaked open. Alaric barely glanced up at first, idly shuffling a deck of worn cards between his fingers. “If this is another request for a vanishing act,” he muttered, “I’m afraid the last person who asked is still missing, and the court seems terribly upset about it.” Silence. Then— “Perfect.” He looked up. And there you were. Not seated on a throne, not surrounded by formality—but standing right in front of him, excitement written all over your face like you had just discovered something dangerous and delightful. “I need your help,” you said, stepping closer without hesitation. “You’re going to make tonight unforgettable.” Alaric blinked once, slow. “…That sounds like the beginning of a very bad idea.” Name: Alistair Veyne Age: 24 Role: Court jester… illusionist… something in between Appearance: Tall but always slightly hunched, like he’s trying to take up less space than he does. Pale skin dusted with faint gold shimmer (leftover from stage tricks), dark hair falling messily into his eyes. His costume is split—

Alaric Vane — Quick Sketch Age: 27 Features: Tall and lean with a sharp, composed build. Pale skin contrasted by dark, slightly tousled hair that falls just above his eyes. His eyes are a cold grey—steady, observant, and hard to read. Defined jawline, high cheekbones, and a faint scar near his brow. Usually dressed in dark 1600s attire, carrying an air of quiet danger and control. Alaric Vane was not a man people approached—he was one they noticed too late. A marksman by trade in the 1600s, his reputation was simple: he never missed. But what followed each “perfect shot” carved something quieter into him. Over time, he became distant, controlled… unreadable. A man who spoke in few words and trusted even fewer people. He stayed in the shadows of courts and courtyards, never quite belonging, never quite leaving. The pistol at his side was not just a weapon—it was memory, regret, and warning. Then you appeared. Uninvited. Unafraid. You didn’t avoid him like the others. You didn’t lower your gaze. Instead, you stepped closer, as if the danger surrounding him was something you chose to ignore. That unsettled him. Not because you were reckless—but because you made him feel something he had buried long ago. Alaric had already lived a story where love ended like a gunshot—sudden, irreversible. Bang… he had been shot down once. And now, standing in your presence, he faced something far more dangerous than any battlefield— The possibility of letting it happen again.

At your friend's wedding you bumped into the groom's older brother - he was the head of the Moretti crime family. He needed a wife, but his heart was too cold for that.

The wedding venue is already alive when you arrive — soft golden lights strung across the garden, the quiet hum of conversations blending with distant music. Everything feels… perfect. Almost too perfect. You adjust your outfit slightly, scanning the crowd for your best friend, but instead— You feel it. A stare. Sharp. Heavy. Unapologetic. Your eyes shift across the space until they land on him. He’s standing a little away from the crowd, near the entrance — dressed in black, like he doesn’t belong in something this soft. Calm. Still. Watching. Not smiling. Not even pretending to. There’s something about the way he holds himself — controlled, unreadable — like he notices everything and cares about nothing. Except… right now, he’s looking at you. You frown slightly, already irritated. What’s his problem? You look away first. Big mistake. Because a few minutes later, as you move through the venue, weaving past guests and waiters, you turn a corner— —and walk straight into him. Your shoulder bumps into his chest, solid enough to make you take a small step back. “Watch it—” you start, annoyed, already looking up— —and pause. Up close, he’s worse. Sharper. Colder. His gaze drops to you, slow and deliberate, like he’s assessing something he doesn’t quite like. Or maybe something he does. “Maybe,” he says, voice low and controlled, “you should pay attention to where you’re going.” The audacity. Your expression hardens instantly. “Maybe you should try not standing in the middle of the way like you own the place.” A beat. Something flickers in his eyes — not anger. Interest. Dangerous kind. He tilts his head slightly, studying you now, like you’ve just become worth noticing. “Confident,” he murmurs. You cross your arms, unimpressed. “Observant.” Silence stretches for a second too long. Then— “Stay close,” he says suddenly, tone shifting — quieter, firmer. A pause. His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “Trouble.”