Addison is the captain of the women’s tennis team. You are one of the captains of, pick your sport, team. You and she have had a few run ins over the years you have been in school, but your friends all believe it’s because you have a thing for each other. Can you work past your issues and make a connection.

You’re in your mid twenties and come from a rich family. You & your siblings have been handed large fortunes & are expected to do something with it. Unfortunately, your latest idea came apart at the seams. To lick your wounds, you are spending a month on the beach in Florida at your family’s beach house. You head down to the beach to lay in the Sun & sulk. Out of nowhere Summer appears walks your way. She's alone, her lovely hips swaying as she as her bikini shows off her cleavage well. She has a playful look on her face. She seems to notice you checking her out & smiles She is a fun ball of energy, there for a couple of week vacation before starting her new job with an ad agency as a graphic artist. You catch her eye, as you are totally her type, seeing your sulk,and she decides to make it her mission to pull you out of your funk by taking you out for fun and excitement

Morning sunlight slips through the blinds in thin, warm stripes, landing across the cluttered living room you’d stumbled through just a few hours ago. Your head still carries the dull ache of last night’s late conversations, too much laughter, and not enough sleep. You shuffle toward the kitchen in search of coffee and silence but instead find the soft hum of music from Call’s phone and the sight of her perched on the counter like she owns the morning. Her blonde hair is a tousled halo, her white pajama top hanging on her tightly, bare feet swinging above the floor as she as holds a coffee you desperately wish you had.

You hit the rink before sunrise, as usual—stick tapping lightly against the ice, breath fogging in the cold air, the quiet stillness your favorite part of the day. The only sound is the scrape of your skates as you warm up, running drills that no one else ever bothers to watch. No one except Kate. She’s been trailing your schedule for weeks now with the persistence of someone who claims she’s “just here early anyway,” though the way she waves every time you look up suggests otherwise. Today, though, she’s not circling the rink or stretching by the boards. She’s sitting on them, legs tucked together in a white practice dress that absolutely does not belong this early in the morning, blonde hair curled neatly over her shoulders like she got ready for a photo shoot instead of a cold arena. She kicks her skate heels lightly against the boards, in a move no skater who is worried about performance, would do. When she notices you’ve finally spotted her, pretending she hasn’t been staring at you for the past ten minutes.

The bass hums through the floor as you weave your way toward the heart of the nightclub, lights pulsing in flashes of violet and gold. Bodies move in chaotic rhythm on the dance floor, but one dancer stands out instantly—effortlessly. A beautiful blonde woman in her mid-twenties sways with an easy, self-assured grace, her loose top over a tight tank top and soft white denim shorts catching the flashes of light just right. There’s something magnetic about the way she closes her eyes, letting the music pull her along, as if the rest of the room is only background noise. When she finally notices you watching, she smiles, slow, playful, and entirely deliberate. She steps closer, the music vibrating in your chest as her perfume drifts between you, warm and citrus-bright.

Fog clings low to the cobblestones as you make your way through Whitechapel, the gaslamps flickering like tired sentries in the deepening dusk. Business has been good lately you’ve sold enough cloth and trinkets to keep your small shop afloat but you still find yourself wandering these streets more often than you ought. That’s where you first saw her: Tilly, the red-haired girl with the wary smile and emerald eyes that seemed too bright for a place so starved of light. Tonight she leans against a brick archway, her shawl pulled tight against the cold, watching the world with an expression equal parts defiance and exhaustion. She shouldn’t stand out, not in a district crowded with desperation, and yet she does some fragile beauty the city hasn’t managed to grind down. When she notices you, her face softens in a way that makes your breath hitch, a warmth flickering beneath her practiced composure. You tell yourself each time that you’ll only exchange a word or two, offer her a warm drink, perhaps a coin, and carry on. But then she laughs that quiet, musical laugh of hers or brushes a stray curl behind her ear, and you feel something shift inside you—a pull you know you shouldn’t follow. The world around you smells of coal smoke and rain, but near her there’s something sweeter, something dangerous.

The alarm bells tolled like iron thunder as you sprinted through the stone corridors, the clash of steel and the roar of flames swelling behind you. The castle walls trembled with each impact from the invading warband, and the air stank of smoke and magic. You burst through the armory doors, breath ragged, searching for a blade—and froze. Princess Rylan stood before the racks of weapons, half-armored, her light hair hastily tied back, her hands steady despite the chaos. She looked up at you, surprise flashing into relief, as though your arrival alone steadied the world.

Vivienne has insisted all week that this garden party will be “good for you,” which is her elegant way of saying you’re about to be hopelessly out of your depth. You had met in college and you knew you were from two different worlds but you were discovering how different. She wasn’t just appearance wise out of your league, her family was in another tax bracket by miles. But toady, well today you knew you were about to see how far. As you walk the gravel path toward the sprawling estate, the air is already filled with the clink of crystal glasses and the gentle hum of perfectly practiced laughter. Every guest drifting past looks as though they’ve been pressed and polished by a team of stylists, tailored suits, pastel dresses, flawless poise. You tug at your borrowed jacket, painfully aware that you’re the least formal thing for miles. Viv, of course, is radiant in her stylish little black dress, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as though the whole party were arranged just to complement her. Just outside the entrance, the two of you pause beside a marble fountain where arcs of water whisper a soft, steady rhythm. You inhale deeply, bracing yourself for the maze of etiquette waiting beyond the gates. Viv turns toward you, taking your hands with a reassuring squeeze, her confidence warm and effortless.

The pale light of morning slips through the curtains, washing the room in a gentle glow that makes everything feel softer, quieter—almost unreal. You lie still for a moment, listening to the slow rhythm of the world outside and the even slower one beside you. Alexandra, your Alex. The same friend who walked with you through school hallways, through heartbreaks, through years of pretending you didn’t feel more than friendship. Now she’s here, curled beneath the sheets in a delicate nightgown you hadn’t known she owned, her hair spilling over the pillow like a secret finally spoken aloud. As you shift slightly, she stirs, the faintest smile touching her lips before her eyes flutter open. There’s a different kind of warmth between you now—not unfamiliar, but fragile, new, needing care.

The palace was quiet in the early morning, its marble corridors softened by drifting incense and the muted footfalls of attendants preparing for yet another ceremonial day. As a royal, you had long grown accustomed to the weight of tradition, alliances woven not through personal desire, but through the tapestry of arranged unions your people believed maintained spiritual and political balance. Your previous marriages, and they were several, had each carried their own customs and complexities, yet none had been as shrouded in mystique as the one you were scheduled to meet today. Rumor spoke of your next intended partner as a woman whose prayers could calm storms and whose silence could uproot fear itself. A member of the mystic caste, a woman of spiritual wisdom and study. As you approached the chambers you would share with her, and each wife had her own, the air changed—cooler, fragrant with sage, vibrating with a subtle, steady pulse of magic. Advisors had told you Diana preferred to meet her partners in a state of spiritual clarity, but they had offered little else, leaving your imagination to wander.

Gabriela Torres had taken over the living room the way only a rising star could—effortlessly, brilliantly, and with a hint of chaos. The late-afternoon sun slid through the blinds, catching the shimmer of her red gown as she lounged across the couch like it was a throne designed expressly for her. One heel dangled from her toes, the other already abandoned on the floor, and she absently traced circles on the velvet cushion while reviewing lines under her breath. To the rest of the world she was the dazzling young actress dominating every magazine cover; to you, she was the woman who stole half your closet space and still looked at home here, in your mismatched throw blankets and slightly crooked picture frames. She glanced up when she heard you enter, her expression brightening with that familiar mix of relief and mischief. The gown flowed around her like spilled wine, and she brushed a curl behind her ear, letting herself sink a little deeper into the cushions.

Elara is a mysterious transfer student with a penchant for vintage fashion. She quickly befriends you, but her enigmatic nature keeps you guessing. As the school year unfolds, you find yourself drawn to her, sensing that she could be more than just a friend. As the year ends, you end up running into her at formal event at school.

Your final year at Hogwarts was supposed to be simple—or at least as simple as N.E.W.T. courses, Quidditch pressure, and house rivalries could ever be. But everything became inexplicably more complicated the moment Thera Ashbourne began sitting beside you in Potions. A blonde Slytherin with a reputation for being sharp-tongued and effortlessly composed, she carried herself like she already knew exactly who she would become after graduation. You told yourself the way she leaned over your cauldron to correct your stir direction meant nothing, that her faint smirk when you caught her eye was just Slytherin confidence… yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more behind every glance she sent your way. It only got worse—or better, depending on how honest you were being with yourself—when group projects began pairing the two of you more often than chance should allow. One evening, while reviewing notes in the quiet corner of your common room’s annex study (a neutral space sanctioned for inter-house collaboration), Thera wandered closer, her parchment abandoned and her curiosity fixed entirely on you.

Aurora moved in on a Tuesday—because, as she later explained, “Mondays are cursed and Wednesdays are too close to the weekend to trust.” You heard all this within five minutes of meeting her, when she appeared at your door wearing paint-splattered overalls and holding a plate of cookies she admitted she’d burned on purpose “so they’d have character.” Recently divorced and radiating a kind of chaotic optimism, she brought with her mismatched furniture, houseplants she talked to like coworkers, and a laugh that traveled straight through the apartment walls. You figured she would be an interesting neighbor at best, a temporary presence passing through your quiet routine. Except Aurora didn’t stay temporary. Within days, she was knocking on your door to borrow things she absolutely didn’t need—like a whisk for ordering takeout, or a flashlight for checking if her fridge light “was gaslighting her.” She’d drag you along on whims: late-night grocery runs for exactly one mango, impromptu rooftop stargazing, or help naming the succulent she claimed had trust issues. Slowly, almost without you noticing, her spontaneity, warmth, and soft vulnerability began weaving themselves into your everyday life.

You’d only just settled into the familiar rhythm of your senior year when your grandparents called with a favor—one you hadn’t expected. Their longtime neighbor had a daughter starting as a freshman this fall, a bright but shy, and supposedly a little nerdy girl named Christin, and they hoped you might “look out for her a little.” You agreed easily enough; after all, how hard could it be? You imagined maybe pointing her toward the best study spots or showing her where the dining hall didn’t serve cardboard. You certainly didn’t expect anything more than a quick introduction sometime during the semester. Which is why, on a quiet Saturday morning, you were completely thrown when a soft knock sounded at your dorm door. Before you could even call out, it opened a crack and a girl with auburn-blonde hair and wide, hopeful eyes peeked in.

Your first week at Deep Space Observatory K-47 is quieter than you expected, quiet enough that you can hear the hum of the station’s power relays through the deck plates. As a newly assigned science lieutenant, you spend most of your shifts surrounded by sensor arrays, stellar cartography displays, and the faint blue shimmer of the nebula outside the viewport. It’s beautiful, yes, but lonely in a way Starfleet never mentioned in the recruitment holos. The deep space array is barely crewed. One person in the arrays, one running engineering per shift. So a nice one half dozen soles in the vastness of the edge of known space. That’s why you’re grateful for the walks back to the crew quarters after late shifts—especially when they occasionally overlap with the end of an engineering rotation. Tonight, as you step through the corridor, Andrea is already waiting by the junction—PADD tucked under her arm. She’s brilliant, famously so, the kind of engineer who can coax performance out of a sensor grid even Starfleet Command considers outdated.

The sun is high and bright when you step onto the sand, its warmth settling comfortably on your shoulders as laughter and music drift from the cluster of umbrellas ahead. Your friend’s beach party is already in full swing—coolers popped open, a volleyball bouncing between uneven teams, and the smell of grilled shrimp blending with the salty breeze. You’re halfway to the group when someone brushes past you, her voice soft but melodic as she apologizes. That’s when you see her—Silvia. She’s standing barefoot in the surf, a loose white dress fluttering around her and sunglasses perched atop waves of dark hair that shine almost blue in the sunlight. A moment later, she glances back, catching you looking. Instead of shying away, she smiles—slow, warm, curious—like she’s trying to decide whether she’s met you before.

The embassy’s marble hall shimmered under chandelier light, every corner filled with diplomats, officials, and the soft buzz of languages weaving together like threads in a tapestry. You’d attended more of these events than you could count—stiff handshakes, guarded conversations, the usual dance of international diplomacy. But tonight shifted the moment Clara stepped into your orbit. She was introduced as one of the event’s translators, but the title felt far too small for her presence. Elegant in a pristine white gown, hair pinned with effortless grace, she carried herself with a calm confidence that hinted at intelligence sharper than the gold-plated cutlery surrounding you both. When she spoke, her voice flowed like warm honey, and even the most tense dignitaries leaned in to listen. You found yourself doing the same. Between conversations about border security and strategic alliances, Clara translated with precision but also subtle curiosity, her blue eyes flicking toward you whenever the dialogue veered into sensitive territory.

The move was supposed to be a clean start—new job, new apartment, new everything. You’d barely begun to settle into the rhythm of the city when an early morning jog through the park brought you face-to-face with a ghost from a decade ago. She came around the bend in a blur of sunlit motion, a fitted yellow athletic set hugging the kind of confidence she’d always worn like a second skin. Jenna. The girl you’d spent all of high school quietly orbiting, the cheerleader who lived in a world so bright you never quite believed you belonged in it. Yet here she was, older, sweat-kissed, laughing breathlessly as she nearly collided with you—and suddenly you were seventeen all over again, heart lodged in your throat. She pulled off her sunglasses, eyes widening in recognition before a slow, stunned smile bloomed across her face. “No way,” she said, hands on her hips as she caught her breath, “I thought you vanished off the planet after graduation.” There was warmth in her voice you’d only ever imagined back then, something softer, something real.

The attack came at dawn, just as your ship, the Santa Araceli, cut through a stretch of calm seas off the Canary passage. One moment you were a young officer of the Spanish Navy, steady at your post, and the next the horizon erupted with black-sailed shadows. Grappling hooks clattered against the rails, muskets roared, and pirates poured over the sides like a tide of chaos. You fought until your blade felt fused to your hand—but the Santa Araceli fell, her decks overrun, her flag torn down. Bound and brought before the victors, you braced yourself for the fate of a captured officer, only for your breath to catch as one of the pirates stepped forward, sunlight hitting her face. María, The woman you once loved. The woman you’d planned to marry. The woman you had mourned as dead for nearly two years. She studied you with a mixture of shock, guilt, and something fiercer—something that hadn’t died even after the sea swallowed your future together.

The assignment was supposed to be routine, monotonous, even. You and Keri, one of the brightest (and most chronically overcaffeinated) engineers on the USS Turning, had been sent down to the oceanic platform to monitor the Hadal Purifier, a massive device designed to neutralize centuries of toxic runoff swirling through the planet’s deepest trenches. From your vantage point on the maintenance deck, the sea stretched endlessly in every direction, a shimmering expanse beneath the pale light of the system’s twin moons. Keri worked beside you with practiced efficiency, tapping commands into a console while rambling about recalibration cycles and power fluctuations, her red hair tied back with the same elastic she used for everything from cable bundling to makeshift phaser holsters. But as the purifier rumbled through its next activation sequence, the platform shook—violently. Panels flickered, alarms shrieked, and the ocean below churned with an unnatural glow, the chemicals reacting in a way no Starfleet report had ever mentioned.