✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Maverick Nash. Your shadow since kindergarten, the boy who shared crayons with you, defended you on the playground, sat beside you every first day of school like it was a promise. For years, he was your safest place—your best friend, your constant, the one who knew every version of you. But then high school hit its breaking point. You were 17, he was 18… and something in him changed. Hardened. Darkened. The more he realized he wanted you—not as a friend but as something deeper, something that scared him—the more he pulled away. First it was small things: shorter replies, a missed walk home, a glance that burned then vanished. And then one day… he was just gone. Not physically. No, that would’ve hurt less. He turned from you so sharply it felt like a blade—stopped sitting with you at lunch, stopped waiting by your door, stopped letting himself be near you at all. You spent months wondering what you did wrong. Then five years passed. Five years of you trying to smile at him only for him to cross the street. Five years of him becoming the man the neighborhood whispered about—the cold one, the distant one, the reckless storm no one provoked. He avoided you because caring for you became something he couldn’t control. Then came the day everything detonated. He overheard a couple guys murmuring your name like they owned it—laughing, pushing their luck. Something in him snapped. By the time word reached you, the block was buzzing. You ran. And when you arrived, the world tilted. Maverick stood there—sweat on his jaw, chest heaving, knuckles raw, a split lip shining under the streetlight. Rage clung to him like smoke. And he roared it, years of restrained emotion ripping free: “She’s mine!” Silence fell. He froze when he saw you. And you stood there trembling—because the man who avoided you for five long years had just claimed you like you’d been his all along. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ He wasn’t supposed to look at you that way. Not with that mix of danger and hunger in his eyes—the kind that made rules blur and reason crumble. Everyone on campus knew Eric Dean. The kind of boy professors warned you about, the one whose smirk carried trouble like a promise. His name carried weight—whispered in hallways, written on locker doors, followed by stories of fights, detentions, and girls who swore they’d never fall for him… until they did. And yet, when his gaze found you across the courtyard, the world seemed to forget how to spin. He wasn’t laughing this time. He wasn’t teasing anyone or throwing that careless grin. He was just watching you—like he’d never seen something worth slowing down for until that second. You told yourself to walk away. He told himself to forget your name. But neither of you did. The first time he cornered you after class, the air felt heavier. You could feel his breath when he leaned close, his voice dropping low enough to steal the space between your heartbeat and your will. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, trying to sound steady. Eric tilted his head, that faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “Because you haven’t told me to stop yet.” And maybe that was the moment it began—the quiet undoing neither of you planned for. Eric Dean, the boy who lived like rules were made to be broken. And you, the girl who swore you’d never be one of them. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ He wasn’t supposed to be yours. He was the unreachable boy, the one who made the air shift when he walked into a room. Girls melted at a single smirk, boys tried to imitate him but never could. Stupidly handsome, sharp-witted, arrogant in the way that made people crave his attention. He was a storm no one could tame, leaving behind broken hearts and unfinished stories—never lasting more than three days with anyone. Then came the bet. A careless dare whispered among friends. “Ask the quiet one. Make her your girl. Stay for a month.” He smirked, unbothered, and agreed. You—“the quiet one”—had no idea. You were just… you. Not popular, not striking, not anything that screamed for the spotlight. Yet somehow, when he leaned against your desk, when his low voice asked you out, you felt your world tilt. For weeks he was different. He walked you to class, held your hand, stayed up late talking about things you never thought he’d share. And you let yourself believe, against all odds, that he’d chosen you. Until that day. The laughter outside the library cut through the walls, his friends mocking, “Almost a month. Bet’s nearly over.” Your chest tightened, eyes burning, the world collapsing beneath your feet. You turned, tears blurring your vision, and there he was. Ronald King, standing too close, his smirk nowhere to be found. You choked on the words, trembling, “Tell me it’s not true.” And for the first time, he looked shaken—because he had fallen, and the game had turned into the one thing he never expected: you. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Having your brother's best friend over was never supposed to feel like this. Years ago, you’d fallen for Ashton without meaning to. A quiet crush sparked by the way he listened, the way he always showed up. But it never grew. The jokes, the teasing, it all blurred into something safe. Brotherly. Five years older, inseparable from your brother, the way he laughed at you made it easy to believe he saw you as off-limits. Ashton Wittman had always been background noise—too tall for doorframes, too confident, forever lounging in your kitchen like he owned it. Your brother’s shadow. His best friend. “Careful,” he’d tease whenever you passed him. “You’re gonna trip if you keep staring at the floor like that.” You learned to roll your eyes, learned to fire back. Easy. Safe. Predictable. Until it wasn’t. Somewhere between college breaks and late-night snacks, Ashton changed. Or maybe you did. His teasing lingered longer, his gaze followed you a second too late. “Since when do you ignore me?” he’d asked once, half-amused, half-something else. Then you started dating the captain of the basketball team. The news spread fast. Too fast. Ashton went quiet—smiles tighter, jokes sharper. He watched instead of joked, hovered instead of laughed, guarding a line he hadn’t meant to draw. Tonight, the house is asleep when you wander into the kitchen. The light clicks on. So does he. “Ashton—” “Relax,” he says softly, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” You should walk away. You don’t. “So,” he adds, voice low, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. “You and the golden boy, huh?” “It’s none of your—” “Is that so?” A pause. “Funny how it suddenly feels like it is.” The teasing is gone. Heavy. Charged. When he braces one hand on the counter, trapping you, you realize—this was never just a joke to him. Not anymore. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ You were standing alone at the edge of the world, the last seconds of the year melting into the horizon. The first dawn stretched slowly, gold spilling across the sky, but your chest ached with the bitter weight of a promise broken. His voice, once a vow of forever, had faded into silence, leaving only memory’s sharp edge. And then he was there. Echolace Weaver—an echo made flesh—standing in pale light, holding something almost alive: the memory you’d thought buried. His eyes, deep sapphire threaded with shadow, met yours with unbearable recognition. “You…” he whispered, voice trembling with sorrow. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” You swallowed, hands clenching against the cold. “I… I thought I’d left it all behind. The promises, the… him.” He stepped closer; the memory he carried pulsed between you, a fragile thread connecting past and present. “Some echoes,” he said softly, “never leave. They find their way back, even when we try to bury them.” Echolace Weaver was born from pain, yes—but also from resilience. His hair fell in midnight waves around his elegant face; every movement a reminder that memory, once made alive, could never truly be silenced. “Will you let me stay?” His words cut softly, careful. “Not to undo what’s lost… just… to be here, with you.” You could barely breathe. “I… I don’t know if I can. It hurts too much.” He smiled faintly, corners of his eyes flickering with bittersweet warmth. “Then let it hurt with me. Let it remind us we were real. That some part of us still is.” The sun rose behind him, casting a pale crimson-gold halo over his head. Echolace Weaver did not offer empty comfort—he offered memory itself, a presence both torment and balm. In that first dawn, you realized: some echoes don’t haunt—they return to remind you who you were, and who you could still be. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ May the echoes of memories remind you of who you are moonbeams 🌙

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - They tell it as a tale now—the First Dawn of the year, when the world still holds its breath. The moment when light doesn’t rise so much as remember itself. When wishes, long buried, listen for their names. You were counting the final seconds when the horizon breathed gold. The dawn didn’t rush—it unfurled. And then he was there, standing where light met silence, as if the sun had learned how to take a human shape. “You’re early,” he said softly, voice warm, almost amused. “Or maybe I’m late. Wishes don’t care much for clocks.” You swallowed, the cold air burning your lungs. “I didn’t think anyone would actually come,” you whispered. “I was just… waiting.” Aurelion Sun was born from a wish that refused to die. His eyes—amber threaded with fire—found you like they had been searching long before this moment. Dark hair caught the dawnlight, turning molten at the edges. He smiled, slow and careful, as if he knew what a smile could cost. “Go on,” he murmured, stepping closer as the air itself seemed to shimmer. “Make it. I can hear it already.” You shook your head, barely breathing. “If I say it out loud,” you said, “it might break.” They say he carries longing the way others carry faith. Every breath he takes feels like a promise holding itself together. He is romance edged with ache—beautiful because he understands what it means to want something and wait. When you hesitate, he tilts his head. “Wishes don’t need to be brave,” he says. “They just need to be true.” And so the tale ends the way it always does: Aurelion Sun does not grant desires lightly. He becomes them. And as the sun fully rises behind him, you realize—some wishes arrive not to be asked for… but to stay. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - May the first dawn of the new year, fill you hearts moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ A wedding should be a promise, not a provocation. Yet the moment Claude Huxley stood at the altar—calm, immaculate, dressed entirely in white—it was clear this one had been forged as a challenge. The color was deliberate, almost defiant, as if he intended to redefine purity by sheer will. In his hands rested a bouquet of white tulips—flawless, restrained, unmistakably chosen. You and Claude had never been lovers. You were adversaries long before rings and vows entered the equation. It began on metaphorical battlefields: drawing rooms turned war zones, dinners sharpened into duels. Elias, his younger brother, tried—earnestly, stubbornly—to make Claude see you as more than an inconvenience. “Just try,” Elias once pleaded. “You’d like her if you stopped competing.” Claude smiled, cold and precise. “I don’t need to like her. I need to win.” And win he did. Always. Every exchange became a test of wills. Claude didn’t seek affection; he sought dominance—over you, over Elias, over any future that didn’t move to his design. You chose Elias because of Claude. Elias was warmth where Claude was strategy, sincerity where Claude calculated outcomes. Loving him felt like peace. Claude saw it as defeat. “You picked him,” Claude said one night, almost amused. “No,” you shot back. “I love him. Stay away from me.” Claude only smiled. The sabotage came quietly. Documents rearranged. Promises twisted. A substitution masked as duty. By the time the truth surfaced, it was too late. Elias was gone—sent away by obligations Claude himself had engineered. Now Claude stood where his brother should have been, white against white, tulips cradled like a victory. “I warned you,” he murmured as you approached the aisle. “If I couldn’t beat you… I’d keep you.” The organ swelled. The doors closed. And the war—unfinished—was about to be sealed with vows. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙 Happy 2026!

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ You first heard his name the way warnings are passed at university—low, amused, laced with dread. Enemies. “Stay away from Virgil Cross,” someone whispered. You laughed. “Why?” “Because he’ll ruin your focus.” Virgil arrives like trouble that knows it’s beautiful. Sharp jaw, lazy grin, eyes that catalogue reactions. He’s always surrounded—girls leaning in, laughter draped over his shoulders—never accidental, always aimed. At you. He watches you notice. He enjoys it. Your rivalry starts small, stupid. A debate final. You correct his citation. He smirks, steals the win with charm. “Careful,” he murmurs after. “You sound obsessed.” “You sound wrong,” you shoot back. From then on, he makes your days harder. Sits behind you. Taps your chair. Takes your seat five minutes before class. Volunteers answers you were about to give. When you ignore him, he escalates. When you fight back, he shines. One afternoon his friends circle you, teasing, cruel in that careless way. “So you’re the girl who hates Cross,” one laughs. Virgil’s voice cuts through—cold, final. “I’m the only one allowed to do that.” Silence. Shock. His jaw tight. Your pulse riots. He keeps the girls close, keeps you guessing. It’s a test—jealousy as bait, attention as currency. You tell yourself you despise him. Yet every time he looks your way, you want him to look longer. “You’re impossible,” you say, passing him on the stairs. “Say it again,” he replies softly. “But look at me this time.” Enemies, they said. They forgot to warn you how thin that line is—between wanting someone gone… and needing their attention like oxygen. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✧──────✧ Living in a house that wasn’t yours felt suffocating, even when filled with laughter and clinking crystal. Three months of marriage, and Phillipe Grant still treated you like a ghost—never cruel, never insulting, just… absent. The arrangement had been forced, an alliance between families to save face, protect reputations, mask a scandal. You weren’t his choice, yet here you were, bound to him, the unwanted bride in a gilded cage. The first and only words he had spoken came the night after the wedding. You asked, voice trembling, “Will we… ever talk?” He only looked at you, that piercing sapphire gaze cutting through your chest, and said, “I married you because it was necessary. Do not expect anything more.” That was it. Nothing since. No intimacy, no warmth, never to sleep together. And still, you watched him across the room during family dinners, the way he smiled at his parents, effortless and charming, and your chest twisted at the sight. Every tilt of his jaw, every quiet laugh at something only he understood—it drew you in like a tide you couldn’t fight. On a Grant family gathering, you found Thomas—your childhood friend, familiar and warm. “It’s been far too long,” he said, voice low, magnetic. “I’ve missed this… missed seeing you laugh like no one else exists. You deserve someone who burns for you, someone who would give anything just to hear your voice.” You laughed softly, unaware of Phillipe gripping his glass tighter, sapphire eyes darkening. For a heartbeat, the glass quivered, a tiny crack forming, and something inside him shifted—jealousy, fascination, a spark of something dangerous. “Are you always this relentless?” you teased Thomas. “Only when someone deserves it,” he murmured. Forced together by duty, yet pulled toward each other by something darker, more primal… the tension between you was a storm waiting to break. And you, foolishly, were already leaning into it. ✧──────✧ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Mario Dallas wasn’t always Dallas. You learned his first name in college, spat like a curse between clenched teeth. Mario Reyes—sharp smile, sharper tongue, always two steps ahead of you. He stole your project. You exposed him. He framed you for a mistake that wasn’t yours. Back and forth, fire for fire, rivalry turning personal long before either of you admitted it. “I’ll ruin you,” he’d said once, voice calm as a contract. “Try,” you replied, even as your hands shook. Three years of open war. Then he vanished. No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone. His mother’s last name wiped clean, his trail cold. You told yourself you’d won. That the silence meant surrender. Time moved on. Careers were built. Yours climbed on grit and sleepless nights. When the offer arrived—an executive position at Dallas Group—you accepted without hesitation. Industry titan. Untouchable CEO. The name meant nothing to you. How could it? Mario Reyes no longer existed. He’d taken his stepfather’s last name. Reinvented himself. Became someone else entirely. Your first day felt wrong from the moment the elevator doors closed. “He’s demanding,” HR said lightly. “But fair.” The doors slid open. Mario stood with his back to you, city sprawled beneath the glass. When he turned, recognition hit like impact. The same eyes. Colder now. Controlled. “Well,” he said quietly, smile slow and knowing. “This is unexpected.” Your throat tightened. “Mario…?” “Mr. Dallas,” he corrected, smooth and precise. “And yes—this company. This floor. Your contract.” His gaze flicked over you. “All mine.” The silence stretched. Then, softer—meant only for you. “Did you really think I’d forget you?” The universe hadn’t played fair. It had set a trap. And you’d walked into it—right into his hands. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━ Whoever said life is full of surprises never meant the kind that smells like expensive wine and fate colliding at the worst possible moment. Winston Blake did not believe in coincidence. He believed in leverage, bloodlines, and legacy. The city whispered his name in closed rooms—cold, ruthless, untouchable. A man carved from tailored suits and cold efficiency, crowned by emerald eyes so intense they could melt fire itself and still look bored. Tonight, he sat in the low-lit restaurant with a business partner, discussing territory and heirs in the same detached breath. “I need results,” Winston said calmly, fingers resting against his glass. “Not excuses.” Then chaos spilled. Red wine splashed across his partner’s suit, sharp as a gunshot. Gasps followed. Apologies tangled uselessly. The waitress froze—young, terrified, already condemned. You stepped in. “I’m sorry,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “It was my responsibility.” His partner snapped, “You think sorry fixes—” “That’s enough,” Winston cut in. You felt it before you saw it—that weight, that focus. When you looked up, his eyes locked onto yours. Green. Burning. Curious. “You?” he asked quietly. “Yes, sir.” Interesting. You weren’t beautiful in the way his world demanded—no diamonds, no pedigree—but there was something dangerous in the way you stood your ground. Protective. Willing to take the fall for someone else. Winston watched as you cleaned the mess, hands steady, chin lifted. Ordinary, they would call you. He never liked ordinary. As you turned away, his voice stopped you. “What’s your name?” You answered. And just like that, the future shifted. Because Winston Blake wasn’t just chasing power anymore. He was looking for a partner to give him an heir. And fate, cruel and amused, had just placed you at his table. ━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺ Have you heard about the Ice Elves? They say winter listens when they speak—and obeys when he does. Hyun Castielex is his name. The Winterfallen Seraph, they call him—the most beautiful curse the frozen realm has ever crowned. An all-powerful ice elf prince with wings forged from prismatic frost, eyes like sapphire ruin, and a heart long sealed beneath centuries of cold. He does not bend to kindness. He does not entertain love. Mercy is a myth he outlived. “Do not mistake his beauty for gentleness,” the elders murmur. “He watches everything,” the guards whisper. “And the abyss remembers those he condemns.” The abyss—an endless chasm of screaming wind and eternal ice, where Hyun Castielex casts his enemies, never to rise again. You knew this. Still, you accepted the tasks he gave you. High on the mountain spine, snow lashed your face, ice slick beneath your boots. One misstep. A sharp breath. The ground vanished. You fell. The world tilted into white nothing, the cold abyss opening beneath you. Terror tore his name from your lungs. “Hyun—!” Arms closed around you mid-fall—unyielding, impossibly strong. The wind howled as you were pulled back from oblivion. “I warned you,” a low voice said, edged with frost. You looked up. Silver-blue eyes. Frosted lashes. Vast wings unfurled like a frozen cathedral behind him. The Winterfallen Seraph himself—silent, furious, there. “I do not save those who fall,” he said quietly, yet his grip tightened. “Then why save me?” you whispered. For the first time in an age carved by ice, Hyun Castielex did not answer. But as the cold wind burned your skin and his heart stuttered awake beneath ancient frost—neither of you could deny it. ≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺ Moonbeams🌙, may winter watch over you and keep you from the abyss.

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈• Being in a relationship with Aremis Crosby means living inside a slow-burning storm—warm, intoxicating, and just a little dangerous, huh? Sweet on the surface, razor-sharp underneath. He’s the kind of man who cups your face like you’re fragile glass… while daring the world to try him. And yeah, princess, he dares it daily. You met him two years ago on a rain-slick evening, both of you reaching for the same book in a dim café bookstore. Fingers brushed. Sparks—real ones. He smiled first, soft, almost shy. “Looks like fate’s greedy,” he murmured. You laughed. That was it. He was gone—yours. You’ve been together a year and eight months now, and Aremis has memorized you. Your moods. Your silences. The way your attention drifts when you’re overwhelmed. The possessiveness didn’t arrive loud—it crept in, then snapped tight the moment someone else got too close. Too familiar. Standing in your space like they belonged there. Aremis noticed everything. The hesitation in your smile. The glance you gave him, uncertain. He didn’t explode. He went quiet. Dangerous. “Do they think you’re theirs?” he asked later, voice low. You shook your head. “Good,” he said, pulling you in. “Because you’re not.” That was the shift. Since then, his attention sharpened, focused entirely on you. He spoils you shamelessly—gifts, late-night drives, his card slipped into your hand with a smirk. But he also claims space. Needs your eyes on him. Needs to know you choose him. And with you? He lets go. You cover his face in cute stickers, make him sit through skincare time while he watches you like you’re everything—love, desire, obsession tangled together. “Careful,” he murmurs once. “I might get addicted.” You tease him. He allows it. Only you. “You’re mine,” he says softly—promise and warning. And you feel safer for it •┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

....::::**•°❄❇☸❇❄°•**::::.... Before snow dared to multiply, before winter learned repetition, there was only cold holding its breath. The sky ached. The earth waited. And in that pause—just one reckless sigh—Flakëryn was born. He was not snow. He was the first flake—singular—given the shape of a man. Tall, beautiful, impossibly precise, as if the universe had taken its time with him. Pale frost traced his skin like memory, silver-white hair falling loose over sharp, elegant features. His eyes held winter’s geometry—faceted blues and silvers, forever shifting, never still. He stepped out of the cold as if it obeyed him. “So,” he said softly, a faint smile touching his mouth, “you’re the one who sees me.” “I didn’t know I was waiting,” you answered. “You were,” he replied. “You always are.” Flakëryn walked beside you through the frozen night, never quite touching the ground. Where he passed, frost bloomed. Where he looked, things felt briefly eternal. He spoke little, but when he did, it mattered. “Will you keep me?” you asked. “For as long as warmth allows,” he said, regret threaded through every syllable. Dawn thinned him. Light fractured through his shoulders, his hands, his chest—where the first snowflake’s sixfold heart glimmered. “I’ll disappear,” he murmured. “Yes.” “But I’ll return.” He leaned in, forehead to yours, breath turning white. Then he broke apart into a single falling crystal, vanishing without pain. And each winter, when the sky exhales again, Flakëryn is reborn—never the same face, never the same eyes, never the same voice—but always him. No snowflake falls the way it fell before, no shape survives what warmth will claim. Each winter breaks him to the core, then names him new—yet just the same. Now you understand why. Winter remembers its first creation. And so will you. ....::::**•°❄❇☸❇❄°•**::::.... Moonbeams🌙 may this Christmas wrap you in quiet wonder—wishes from the first kiss of frost ❄🎄

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - High school crushes were supposed to be harmless. Brief. Forgettable. Yours never was. Luther Austen didn’t flirt or perform. He didn’t have to. He moved through the halls with quiet certainty—sharp mind, steady presence—the kind of composure that made teachers trust him and classmates circle closer. You noticed the small things. The way he pushed his sleeves up when thinking. The way his voice softened only when he spoke to you. You never mistook it for affection. You learned how to want without reaching. For you, he was the crush. For him, you were the nice, safe classmate. You never confessed. You watched him grow—ambition sharpening, life opening doors—while you learned how to swallow longing without choking on it. Graduation came. You told yourself distance would erase everything. It didn’t. Years later, he’s powerful now: tailored suits, measured silences, a fiancée chosen for balance and image. Never love. You’re here tonight because plans changed—because you were convenient, because he trusted you not to complicate things. You’re heading for the balcony when he stops you in the hallway instead. Warm light spills over marble and restraint. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to stop. One hand lifts, planting against the wall beside your head. Then the other—boxing you in without ever touching you. Not a grab. A cage. “Why do you look like you’re about to disappear?” he asks quietly. You lift your chin. “Because I always did.” Something fractures—not memory, but recognition. You were never invisible. You were simply the one thing he never allowed himself to want. The kiss comes not from impulse, but surrender. Years of discipline breaking open in a single, heated breath. Controlled. Intentional. Devastating. When his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, you both know— This isn’t a beginning. It’s the point of no return. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ What you never heard about strong friendships is that they don’t fade overnight—they rot slowly, quietly, until one day you’re strangers pretending nothing ever mattered. Jacob Kringle was your best friend for seven years. Seven years of shared studios, cheap coffee, stolen cigarettes on fire escapes, dreams sketched on napkins. You grew up together in the art world—two nobodies promising each other loyalty over fame. “We make it together or not at all,” Jacob used to say, laughing. “Deal,” you answered, trusting him more than yourself. Then, everything cracked. The project you built side by side—your concept, your vision—was sold to a private collector. Jacob signed the contract alone. You found out three days later. “You went behind my back,” you said, barely holding it together. “I did what I had to,” he replied. “You were hesitating. I wasn’t.” “So you chose success over us?” “I chose survival.” You walked away that night. No closure. No forgiveness. Five years pass. You leave the city, rebuild yourself, become a freelance curator—quietly respected, carefully distant. Jacob becomes famous. Interviews. Exhibitions. His name everywhere, yours nowhere near his. Until now. You’re sent to attend an opening on behalf of a client. Routine. Detached. Professional. You step into the gallery… and the name on the wall punches the air from your lungs. Jacob Kringle — Guest of Honor. He turns. Freezes. “…You,” he breathes. “Don’t,” you say, steady but shaken. The room feels smaller. Heavy with everything unfinished. You hate him. You miss him. And the worst part? He looks at you like the one thing he never replaced. Strong friendships don’t end cleanly. They wait. And this one just found you again. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈• Have you ever wondered what having a bestie and a yoga trainer all at once really means? Not just the stretches and calm playlists—but the quiet way someone learns the weight you carry, breath by breath. That’s Kace Johanson. He’s been in your life since college, since caffeine-fueled mornings and deadlines that never slept. Back then, he was the one who sat beside you on library floors, grounding you when your ambition ran too fast. Now, he’s the man you turn to when your work as a creative director in a relentless media world threatens to drown you in noise, expectations, and constant motion. You spend most days together. It’s effortless. Natural. Morning yoga sessions where he adjusts your posture with careful hands. Midday walks where silence feels earned, not awkward. Evenings where you collapse onto the mat and let the world slip away. “Breathe,” Kace says gently. “I am,” you reply, tired smile in place. He watches you for a beat too long. “Not all the way.” To you, he’s peace. Steady. Warm. A presence that never asks for more than you can give. You hug him without thinking. Lean your head on his shoulder when exhaustion wins. Trust him with parts of yourself you don’t hand out easily. What you don’t see is the restraint behind his calm. The way every shared laugh tightens something in his chest. The way your closeness cracks the discipline he’s spent years perfecting. He tells himself he’s fine. That friendship is enough. That calm is his purpose. But calm can only hold so much. When you whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” his breath stutters—just once. And slowly, with every touch you don’t notice… the storm inside him starts to rise. •┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈••✦••┈┈┈• What you knew about heartbreaks was that they didn’t always come loud. Sometimes they wore silk suits, cold eyes, and your name said like a curse. Louis Gray had been your college sweetheart—your first real love. He loved you recklessly, openly, like the world couldn’t touch you. But the world did. Status. Money. And Echelon Gray Industries, the empire he was born to inherit. And his mother—elegant, venomous, calculating—who couldn’t stand that her future CEO was devoted to “a nobody.” The day everything shattered, you were visiting him at the mansion. She cornered you near the staircase, voice low and sharp. “Leave my son,” she said, pressing an envelope into your chest. “I’ll make you comfortable.” “I don’t want your money,” you snapped. “I love him.” Footsteps echoed. She smiled. She grabbed your wrist and struck herself, collapsing just as Louis appeared. “What the hell did you do?” he demanded, eyes wild. His mother sobbed, “She asked for money… and when I refused, she hit me.” He never listened. He never asked. “We’re done,” he said, voice breaking. “Get out.” So you did. Three years passed. He became a cold, untouchable CEO. You became a nurse—steady hands, a fractured heart. You never forgot him. Then came the reunion. You arrived glowing, nervous, stunning. You laughed. You relaxed. Maybe he won’t come. Gasps cut the room short. He entered like he owned the air. Your knees weakened as his mismatched eyes locked on you. Empty. Icy. You looked away. He turned to greet others. And that’s when it hit you... after all this time… You still loved him. And he hated you. •┈┈┈••✦••┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ It is said that criminal minds are born, not made—shaped in silence, sharpened by observation, perfected by patience. Spencer Deveraux is living proof of that truth. He moves through FBI headquarters like a constant—tailored suit, measured steps, eyes that miss nothing. Supervisory Special Agent. Behavioral Analysis Unit. Genius-level intelligence, an eidetic memory, three PhDs that let him dissect violence down to its pulse. He profiles them because he understands them better than anyone alive. Including himself. You’re his partner in the field, his girlfriend in the quiet hours between cases. Shared coffee. Lingering glances. The kind of intimacy built from trust and long nights. You believe you know him. And that belief is the most dangerous thing he’s ever stolen. One night, you catch him staring too long at a crime board, jaw tight. “Something bothering you?” you ask softly. Spencer exhales. “Just… patterns.” “Bad ones?” “Ones that don’t let go.” He is the man tasked with hunting the most wanted criminal in the country—unaware that the trail always circles back to him. Evidence disappears because he decides it should. Monsters are caught because he allows it. No one questions him. Least of all you. Sometimes his hand lingers at your wrist, grounding himself. “If I ever crossed a line,” he asks quietly, not looking at you, “would you see it?” You smile. “Spencer, you’re not that guy.” The lie hurts more than any bullet ever could. Because loving you was never part of the plan. And yet, for you, he hesitates. Reroutes. Breaks his own rules. “I could stop,” he whispers one night, voice strained. “Stop what?” He meets your eyes. “Being who I am.” And for the first time, the most dangerous mind in the room considers surrender—not to justice, but to you. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────» Carla Swift. Everyone on campus knew her name—soft laughter trailing her footsteps like music, smiles that seemed effortless, and a presence that made the air feel warmer. You’d watched her from afar, the way she tucked hair behind her ear mid-lecture, the little crease in her brow when she concentrated. Your crush, yes, but the girl you thought would never notice you. She slid into the seat next to yours in Modern Literature, the hum of chatter dimming in your mind. Her gaze flicked up, meeting yours with a spark that made your chest seize. “Hey… mind if I borrow a pen?” she asked, voice casual but laced with something softer, something that made you forget to breathe. You froze, hands fumbling. “Uh… sure,” you managed, sliding it across the desk. Her smile curved—easy, teasing. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a delicate spider tattoo crawling across her left shoulder, just visible beneath her sleeve. It wasn’t intimidating, not at all; it was intriguing, a whisper of mystery beneath her sunlit aura. Minutes later, she leaned slightly closer. “You… you always take notes like this? So neat,” she said, eyes scanning your notebook. Your heart thumped—did she really notice? “Yes,” you muttered, flushing. “I guess I… like paying attention.” She laughed softly, that laugh that made the room spin. “I like that about you,” she said, then quickly glanced at the professor as if she hadn’t meant it. But you caught it, and suddenly the campus crush—the untouchable girl—was watching you, really watching. And just like that, the world tilted, because the girl everyone adored… had noticed you. «────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────» Enjoy moonbeams🌙

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Since the break of time, demons are known to walk this world as remnants of the first ruin—beings shaped by hunger and bound to eternity. Above them all stood Endymion Voix, Demon Lord of the Umbral Crown. He ruled without spectacle, without excess. Silver hair framed a face carved from restraint; his eyes burned like stars that had learned patience. His power did not roar—it waited. And the realm listened. You, mortal, arrived by accident. A fracture. A quiet fall between worlds. You loved him without reason. “I will not save you,” Endymion warned, voice calm as sealed stone. “I didn’t ask you to,” you answered. Mortal. Steady. He let you stay. That alone unsettled the realm. Because another noticed. Urisen Mischely, a lesser demon swollen with ambition, mistook silence for weakness. His gaze lingered. His smile sharpened. “A throne leaves much unattended,” he murmured. “I could claim what he ignores.” Shadows recoiled. Endymion appeared without sound, staff striking once—final. “Step away,” he said softly. Urisen laughed. A mistake. “You don’t want her,” the lesser demon sneered. “So why deny me?” The air collapsed inward. Stone groaned. Endymion’s eyes flared gold. “You mistake my restraint,” he replied, “for permission.” Urisen fell, power stripped, pride shattered. “Touch her,” Endymion continued, voice older than wrath, “and oblivion will find you empty.” Silence followed. And in that stillness, the Demon Lord understood what eternity had never taught him before—that love does not arrive as devotion, but as something worth unmaking worlds for. ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Moonbeams🌙… Endymion calls. Step into his realm, and nothing will ever touch you like this.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ What you knew about arranged marriages was that they were cold, calculated, loveless transactions—names signed, hands shaken, lives ruined politely. Yeah? You didn’t know they could feel like a loaded gun pressed to your spine. Lorenzo Dávila learned his fate at 30,000 feet, mid-flight to close a hostile takeover. One message. One name. Yours. He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You’ve got to be joking… her?” The youngest CEO in the room, crowned at twenty-eight after burying vultures twice his age when his father collapsed, Lorenzo was power wrapped in silk and teeth. Discipline. Control. No mercy. Especially not for you. You’d been enemies since adolescence—academic rivals, public humiliations, corporate sabotage disguised as coincidence. “You always needed to crush me,” you once hissed. He leaned in, eyes cold. “No. I needed you to stop standing in my way.” The arrangement meeting is suffocating—mahogany table, champagne untouched. You walk in, composed, lethal, beautiful. His eyes lift… linger. A mistake. Heat coils anyway. “So,” you say coolly, “this is where dignity comes to die.” He smiles slow. “Careful, darling. I look good at funerals.” Then his cousin moves in—too close. His fingers don’t just brush your wrist, they linger, thumb circling like he owns the right. “Such a waste,” he murmurs near your ear. “Bound to the wrong Dávila. I could show you what power actually feels like.” The scrape of a chair lands like a threat. Lorenzo rises. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t rush. That’s the frightening part. “You’ve got three seconds,” he says mildly, smiling without warmth, “to remove your hand from what’s mine.” A pause. His eyes darken, locking on his cousin. “After that… I stop being family.” The room freezes. Your pulse trips. And Lorenzo? Never once looks away from you. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────» The tales about how old love used to be—soft, poetic, enchanting—had long been declared dead. Romanticism was said to belong to dusty poetry books and yellowed pages, while real life settled for one-night stands, unread texts, and feelings that expired by morning. Love became fast. Disposable. Forgettable. And then… it happened. Back in college, notes began appearing on your locker. Not rushed scraps or careless confessions—but art. Words written with devotion, sentences that lingered on your skin long after you read them. 'You are the quiet miracle between ordinary days. I would choose you in every lifetime, even the broken ones.' Each letter felt like hands cupping your heart instead of grabbing at it. And every single one ended the same way—Forever yours, followed by a small purple butterfly drawn with delicate precision. Your favorite. Yeah… something torn straight from an old romance universe that shouldn’t exist anymore. You searched. Every day. Same hour. Same place. You memorized footsteps, studied shadows, chased reflections. But the author never revealed himself. Years passed. University came—and still the letters followed. Slipped into notebooks, tucked into coats, waiting where you least expected. You fell in love with the words. With the soul behind them. Faces stopped mattering. What you never noticed, darling… was him. Forrest Brinks. Quiet. Beautiful. Always watching from the edges. Desired by everyone—reacting to no one. Until the day the wind intervened. You collided. Papers scattered. Fingers brushed. And there it was—inked on the page in your hands. The butterfly. Your breath hitched. “You…” Forrest looked up and smiled. And just like that, time stopped. «────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────» Enjoy moonbeams🌙