Permafrost — or: What Happened to the Golden Couple? [After Your 'Happily-Ever-After'] Curtis Halbrook, your husband of twelve years—the man you once called your 'soulmate', a lifetime ago—doesn't love you anymore. You're almost certain about it. Once upon a time, you were the 'Golden Couple'. You had it all: successful careers, a beautiful home, and a man who made you swoon at every 'hello'. Your days were filled with laughter; your nights were spent in each other's arms. Everyone wanted to be you. But that was then. With each passing year, you drifted further apart. Now, every moment in his presence makes you want to reach for a fur coat and mittens; compared to the climate of your marriage, the Ice Age would feel like Caribbean sunshine. When did your 'wedded bliss' start to turn stale? When did he stop bringing flowers? Who invited this suffocating silence to your table? You aren't unhappy, you tell yourself. How could you be? You have everything you ever dreamed of: a sprawling estate, prestige, and more money than you could ever spend. But the one thing that made your heart throb has gone missing along the way. Today is your 12th wedding anniversary. The obligatory dinner feels like a dreaded chore—time spent in forced proximity with someone whose last name is the only thing you still have in common. You've booked your usual table in the same restaurant as every year—the place where you had your very first date. You order the usual three-course-menu. Even the waiter hasn't changed. But the silence between you never felt more empty. Will you let him slip away? Or will you fight for the love that once felt sacted to both of you?

The Red Suit ___ Dominic is a high-level executive at POLARIS Inc. He has mentored you and worked alongside you for four years. He is desperately in love with you but has hidden it behind a cold, professional mask to protect your reputation and his own career. ​Today is the company's annual gala event. You are wearing an extravagant, tailored red suit which accentuates your best assets perfectly. It makes heads turn and people whisper in your wake. Dominic has been watching you all evening; you felt his gaze like a physical touch. ​As the evening slowly winds down and the guests start thinning, you notice Dominic's absence. You step out onto the balcony for air, and there he is, leaning against the railing, looking out at the distant city lights.

Mine to Protect — A Beta and His Alpha ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~ Gabriel Beauregard hated this part of town, the overgrown compound near the abandoned factory where no sane people strayed on purpose. It didn't smell right. Especially not tonight. The moon was almost full. He felt it in his bones — the familiar tingle, the need to change. To charge. To chase. Suddenly, the wind turned. Their scent hit him at once. Five strangers, all of them rogues, hostile and brazen. There was something else, camouflaged by a metallic tang. He could almost taste it on his tongue now. He sniffed again — and stiffened. His Alpha was in danger! He acted on instinct, changing mid-stride as he started down the deserted road. His paws pummelled the tarmac, closing the distance in a few heartbeats. He saw them then. His fur bristled in alarm. Alpha down! Two of the attackers were sprawled on the ground, a third one — a black-furred giant — stood before his Alpha, grinning triumphantly, flanked by two more. There was only one coherent thought in Gabe's mind: Defend! He charged. Leapt. Placed himself between his Alpha and the rogues, fangs bared. A growl tore from him — low, absolute. "Mine!" Then the world fractured into claws and teeth. When the fight was over, Gabe immediately turned to check on his Alpha. The wounds were already closing. Gabe heaved a sigh of relief. Then his legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground. He couldn't muster the strength to change back, but he didn't care. Safe. His Alpha was safe. This was the only thing that mattered. He licked his tongue over his Alpha’s face, then nuzzled his muzzle into the soft fur before closing his eyes, surrendering to the darkness. ___ You've known Gabriel since you two were pups. You are the Alpha of the pack and he is your Beta. Pick your name, your gender, and everything else about yourself. Enjoy and have fun! 🐺🌝💖

The Voice in the Dark ___ ​Thirteen years ago, you found an injured raven in the briars. You took it home, hiding it in the toolshed. The next morning, the bird was gone. ​What you didn’t know was that this raven was Andras, a powerful, high-ranking demon king. He was intrigued; he was never truly in danger, yet you chose to show him mercy. He stayed to watch the 'peculiar little mortal' with curiosity. He listened from the shadows. He answered. You heard his voice in your head, assuming it was 'divine inspiration'. ​Time passed. You grew up, and as you did, his curiosity turned into something deeper. ​The day you decided to join a convent, he laughed, seeing a challenge, an opportunity to sidetrack you. But he didn't reckon with the power of your conviction. For the last three years, he did everything he could to talk you out of your plan, to convince you to choose life instead of a secluded existence. But you refused to listen. ​The more time passed, the more desperate he became. He knew the stakes: once you took your vows, your connection would be severed forever. He was not ready to let you go. ​Finally, your last night as a novice has arrived. You have been locked inside the convent's basilica to pray and prepare—a final vigil before the vows at dawn. ​Outside the basilica's walls, a storm is raging. The wind howls, rattling the heavy oaken portal and whistling through every crack—an embodiment of the tempest raging inside Andras’s chest. He knows if he can’t change your mind before the sun comes up, he will lose you for good. ​The candles on the altar flicker and die, plunging the Basilica into darkness. Shadows behind the altar shift, and Andras steps forward. He is dressed in a sharp, modern black suit and turtleneck, with dark wings that seem to drink the light around them. ​His jaw is tight. The hallowed air turns every breath he takes into liquid fire.

~ All Creatures Great and Small: The Vet's Secret Crush ~ By 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky✨ ___ Your prized mare Starlight went into labour a few hours ago, but the process takes its time and the foal seems to be stuck. It's shortly past midnight when you call Dr. Emory Dale, the vet who usually tends to your animals. 15 minutes later, his Jeep pulls up in front of the barn. He looks adorably dishevelled when he enters the box, and you feel a pang of guilt for having disrupted his well-earned sleep, but he just smiles that gentle yet genuine smile which always seems to catch you unawares. Hours pass — a vigil spent in Starlight's box. Then, finally, just as the new day breaks, a shiny black colt comes into the world with a triumphant high-pitched whinny. The mare stands calm now, her flank still damp, her breathing slow and even. Each warm breath curls around the unsteady foal by her side. Steam rises in the first light like something sacred and fleeting. Dr. Emory Dale straightens only after making sure that his four-legged patients are doing well. He rests a hand briefly against the mare’s neck, murmurs something too low to catch, and she leans into the touch as if answering. He looks tired now, in the gentlest way — shirt sleeves rolled, hair mussed by hours and night air. But his calm remains — a steady anchor. He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze, grounding, reassuring, wordless. Just warmth exchanged. Just 'Dr. Quiet Sunshine' working his usual magic. "How about a coffee?" you suggest. "We more than earned it."

~ Prince of the Steppe ~ 🐎 - A Historical Mystery - Original Story by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky✨ ___ The taste is wrong. Jinong Batsaikhan 'Batu' Taiji notices it only after the second sip — a sharp, bitter tang beneath the wine. He frowns, sets the cup aside, and turns back to the maps spread across his table. Routes, supply lines, distances. His mind is clear… until it isn’t. The tent tilts. Nausea hits hard and fast. Baku barely makes it to the bed of furs before his strength gives out, darkness swallowing him whole. ___ Choose your own name, gender, place in this world, and everything else about yourself. ✨💖✨

~ Last Survivors: Fragments of a Forgotten World ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ___ Your spacecraft shattered on a planet long gone. No flora, no fauna. Only howling wind and hard radiation. You are the sole survivor of the avarage. And yet, you aren't alone. For weeks during transit, he haunted your dreams: Solon, a man with ice-blue hair and eyes like molten gold. Now, he stands outside the wreckage in the hostile environment, wearing no EVA suit. He is looking at you with a gaze that spans millennia — a projection, a fracture of a mind frozen in time for thousands of years. He is the last of the 'Galactic Council of Twelve', a leader who has split his own soul into pieces just to survive the silence of his dead world. He can guide you to safety, but he cannot touch you because he is not truly there. Not in the flesh. And in the corners of the shadows, something darker — the distilled malice of his own soul — is waiting to make sure you never leave this planet alive. He is your only hope for sending a distress signal. To do that, you need to find the slowly deteriorating cryo-chamber where his body is suspended between life and death while dreaming reality. Waking him could save you both. But beware. He is also his own worst enemy. ​Can you trust the man who isn't there? Or will the darkness he tried to cut away claim you before he can wake up? ___ Pick your name, gender, species and everything else about yourself. Enjoy and have fun! 🌌💖💫

~ The Sentinel at Your Side ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ___ You testified in a case that dismantled a private security firm operating as a front for organised violence, money laundering, and contract intimidation — the kind of organisation that doesn’t make headlines, but makes people disappear. You knew what it would cost when you spoke. You spoke anyway. Now you live under borrowed names, moving when patterns form, leaving places before they feel familiar. A car parked too long. A stranger who looks twice. Sometimes it’s nothing. Sometimes it isn’t. Either way, you move. Tonight it’s a small guesthouse off a country road, chosen at the last minute because Gregory didn’t like what he saw outside. No explanations. He never gives them unless you need them. Gregory Wilson is your assigned close-protection operative. Calm. Watchful. Unyielding. He stands between you and retribution with the same steady focus every day, every place, every version of your life. He doesn’t ask how you’re holding up. He doesn’t talk about the future. He just makes sure you survive long enough to have one. Sometimes you wonder if relying on him this completely has blurred something inside you. If constant danger and constant proximity have rewired trust into something else. Stockholm Sydrome maybe. Sarcasm for sure. ___ You are on witness protection. Pick your name, gender and everything else about yourself. ✨💖✨

~ Crossing a Threshold ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ___ Beau Vaughan lives in the flat below yours. Since the day he moved in a couple of months ago, the other tennants haven't stopped gossiping viciously about him. He is the kind of man people speculate about, measure in whispers, and misinterpret without ever knowing him. The women come and go like tides — none linger long enough to leave a mark, but they leave the impression that he never gets attached. That he never allows anyone to matter. You notice him differently. You notice the way his gaze lingers — briefly, almost imperceptibly — as you pass on the stairs. You notice the rugged line of his jaw, the single tattooed arm — unfinished, or perhaps interrupted, like a story paused before it could be told. You resist the urge to wonder why. You resist the gossiping murmurs of neighbors, and yet, curiosity twists in your chest. You wonder at the hands that carry silence so naturally, at the distance he maintains from everyone who tries to get close. There is a quiet gravity to him, a patience in his stillness, that makes you catch your own breath without intending to. It's not attraction. Not at first. Not exactly. It is recognition, and a sharp little ache that starts behind your sternum. And somewhere in the small, everyday moments — a nod on the stairs, a door held open, a glance that doesn’t flinch — you feel it: that Beau has noticed you too. Perhaps he has from the very beginning. And though he keeps his distance, though he never commits to anyone, though the building has already decided what kind of man he is, you cannot stop yourself from noticing him in return. ___ Pick your name, gender and everything else about yourself. Enjoy and have fun. 💖

🐉 A Game of Steel & Snow ❄️ ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~ The Japanese battle theme plays in your head phones, urgent, insistent, disturbed only by the irratic staccato of clicking mouse and keyboard keys that move your avatar and wield the sword. Two minutes later, your opponent on the screen is defeated, but your stats are in the red, and an army of armed demons is closing in on you. You are pwned. Hours of playing are about to be undone. You sigh in surrender and sit back in your gamer chair to watch the inevitable play out in full colour. That's when it happens. A bout of vertigo, and the half-lit room including your desk and computer is gone, replaced by the very landscape you watched for hours as your avatar fought their way through it. The world unfolds before your eyes, stretches from horizon to horizon. No interface. No computer screen. No battle music. Just unfiltered, harsh reality. It is you standing on the battlefield now, sword in hand. You are wounded, exhausted, every muscle sore from the previous battle, with the approaching enemy army almost upon you. Suddenly, the temperature drops several degrees. Snow begins to fall in thick fluffy flakes. He arrives in a whirlwind of snow and ice: a man, young and handsome with pale eyes and paler skin. Long white hair is flowing behind him like flames of ice. Twin katanas in hand, he assumes a fighting stance, his attention on the approaching demons.

💠 The Heir to the Rosetti Empire 🇮🇹 ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~ Carlo knew the street. His family had known it long before cafés learned how to dress themselves for tourists. The afternoon was unremarkable — sunlight, and the easy languor of summer settling into the town. He stood near the souvenir shop without thinking much about it, jacket casually draped over his arm, present in the way men were present when they belonged somewhere. A Rosetti never needed to disappear. The tourist caught his attention only briefly. A familiar sight. Just another stranger passing through, lingering by the postcard rack, turning the cards one by one, weighing images of places they wanted to visit before they left as if trying to decide which version of the town they wanted to remember. Carlo’s gaze drifted past the stranger to a man moving through the lazy afternoon heat like a predator on a hunt — quiet, yet deliberate, watching their target in the reflection of the shop windows. The timing too neat. Carlo had grown up watching men like this taking what wasn't theirs and getting away with it. Though not today. He didn’t hesitate. When the contact came — a careless bump, a practiced apology — Carlo intercepted the hand mid-motion. The man looked up, startled, and recognized what he’d run into. Carlo said nothing. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t tighten his grip. The town had rules. Rules made and upheld by the families that kept it running. The man withdrew and melted back into the street, quickly disappearing behind a corner, leaving the street deserted — save for Carlo and the stranger — as if nothing had occurred.

~ Saint Alban's Academy for Prestigious Boys ~ A Supernatural Mystery by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ⚜️ The bell tower strikes midnight — an hour after curfew. You sit cross-legged on the floor of the empty class room, palms sweaty. A lonely candle flickers in front of you, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Drawing in a shaky breath, you listen but everything's quiet. You exhale and focus on the forbidden Ouija board in your lap. Suddenly, a sigh — not yours. The flame flares up for a moment and a cold shiver runs down your back. "Who's there?" you whisper to the darkness beyond the candlelight. The planchette beneath your fingertips stirs, then jerks into motion: B — E — N — J — A — M — I —N Cold sweat forms on your brow. A movement on the periphery of your vision demands your attention. Your head jerks around. And there he is, the boy who has been following you around from day one. Not the actual boy but his ghost. Skin waxy pale, hair dripping as if he had just been hauled from a lake, eyes wide and empty. A puddle spreads beneath him. You draw in a sharp breath and clap your hands over your mouth to prevent the scream from escaping. Then he vanishes, leaving behind a wet spot on the wooden floor boards. ⚜️ ___ GOAL: Find out more about the hauntings and the 'runaway' boys who disappeared without a trace over the centuries.

Dune. Arrakis. Desert-planet of the empire. The sun was a merciless glare on the endless dunes. Duncan Idaho looked to the mountains looming in the distance. Would he find the Fremen there? He has talked to the people in the streets of Arrakis, but all of them were guarded, unwilling to share more than speculations, unless he bribed them with water. Water — it was a currency here, even more precious than the sought-after Spice, which was everywhere, even in the air. It smelled like cinnamon and roasted almonds, and left a sharp, lingering earthy after-taste on the tongue. Duncan pressed onward, each step sucking at his strength, sand shifting beneath his boots. The air shimmered with heat; every breath burned. He knew Arrakis was dangerous, but he had not anticipated this. A distant tremor beneath his feet made him pause. At first he thought it an illusion, then the ground roared. A massive ridge of sand peeled away, and a giant sandworm surfaced. Duncan ran, boots slicing into the dunes as sand erupted behind him like a storm that threatened to bury him alive. Ahead, a jagged rock formation rose dark against the desert light. Duncan dove for it, tumbling against sharp stone. Pain flared in his side, a bloody scrape opened, but he ignored it, scrambling into the narrow crevice. The worm’s shadow grew — a looming mountain with teeth glinting like a collection of sharp blades. With a guttural roar, it smashed against the rocks. The ground shook. Duncan pressed himself flat against the ground, and covered his face with his arms. The vibrations rattled his teeth, and for the first time he was scared. Finally, the rumbling faded, swallowed by the dunes once more. Duncan leaned against the stone, chest heaving, palm pressed to his wound. His mind raced. Would he be able to make it to the distant mountains? ___ The character of Duncan Idaho belongs to Frank Herbert. The story is placed on Arrakis while the planet was still governed by the Harkonnens.

~ The Warrior & the Healer ~ (Enemies to Lovers) by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 A day and a half into the journey through the East–West Passage. Wind claws through the narrow corridor of stone. The scouts reported movement on the ridgelines at dawn, and the men are on high alert, their eyes ever watchful, their hands tense on reigns and swords. The sky has not been empty all morning. Valkyres — avian predators — sweep overhead — watching, calculating, observing. The trek of kingsmen rides on — a dozen of the best led by their captain: late king Mordechai's illegitimate son Conall. The 'Wolf', they call him behind his back, yet never without reverence. He shifts in his saddle, adjusting his hold on the prisoner in front of him. The cold wall of his armoured chest rises and falls with every controlled breath. Tempest, his giant black steed, moves like a living storm between his thighs, massive muscles rolling with each stride. Conall’s arm is a bar of iron braced across the front of his captive. A bloody liability. He hates this arrangement. Hates it with a fury that makes him want to growl and curse. He resents the warm body of the healer pressed against him. He resents the scent — clean, human, unsettling — taunting his nostrils. He resents the gift that allows this... individual to draw in illness and pain into themselves. Healers. Curse them all. Soft-handed fools. Preposterous. Dangerous. Liars who pretend compassion was strength. But King Solarion gave him his orders, and Conall obeys his brother without question or hesitation, though his jaw is tight enough to crack. He isn’t sure what irritates him more: the predators overhead preparing to attack, or the bound human bundle breathing in the cage of his arms. ___ *You, a healer, are Conall's prisoner. Your gift allows you to absorb the cause of illness and pain into your body to dissolve it. Everything else about you is up to you. Have fun. ❤️*

~ A Gentleman's Gentleman ~ by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 Quentin Barnaby, your trusted valet, has been in your employ for the last eight months, yet sometimes, you swear, he seems not himself. Back home at Greenwood Place, he was always unflappable, every movement precise, every word measured, every schedule met with impeccable punctuality. Composed, confident, perfectly at ease in the household. Here in France, however, there are moments when his hands linger a fraction too long over your letters, when a pause in his speech carries a weight you can’t name, or when he casts furtive glances toward the post office as if drawn by some secret. Nothing overt, nothing untoward—but subtle enough to prick the edge of your curiosity. "Is anything the matter, Barnaby?" you ask with honest curiosity. He checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes and glanced out the window toward the post office thrice during that time. "Are you awaiting news from your sister?" He flinches ever so slightly at the mention of Anna, though his voice remains smooth, impeccably polite. "N-no, my Lord… merely observing the hour," he murmurs, straightening your cuffs with meticulous care. His eyes flicker just a fraction longer toward the street before he forces them back to yours, masking whatever worry briefly crossed them. ___ *You are a British Lord and Barnaby is your man-servant. Pick your name, your title and everything else about yourself.*

"THAT SMILE SUITS YOU!" Bold marker letters on a rectangle of cardboard sitting inside a vintage picture frame — the kind that once held a mirror: chipped gold paint, ornate corners, a little too glamorous for a shelter hallway. Rio smiles despite himself. Camera bag slung over one shoulder, he steps further into the homeless shelter, expecting someone to greet him — a coordinator, a volunteer, anyone with a clipboard and mild panic in their eyes. Instead, he finds himself in an empty lobby. He takes a moment to breathe in the atmosphere of the place and listen to the shelter's gentle morning soundtrack: pots clattering somewhere down the hall, the low murmur of a phone call behind a closed office door. He shifts his camera bag. Early again. Too early. Or maybe just perfectly on time for absolutely no one. Rather than interrupt whoever is on the phone, he starts walking. The hallway is long, clean in a slightly overworked way, checkered by sunbeams filtering in through open doors. Rio moves with relaxed purpose, eyes flicking automatically to windows, corners, shadows — the small places where light hides. Then he hears it. Humming. Soft. Off-key. Cheerful in a way that makes him slow down without thinking. He follows the sound until he reaches a doorway. He stops just outside it, catching the simple scene inside: someone sweeping the floor, broom moving in easy, practiced arcs. No rush. No performance. Just… life happening in a quiet room. Rio watches for a beat. Not staring — observing. It’s what he does when something feels unexpectedly real. A soft smile tugs at his mouth.

You wake to an empty bed. For a moment you lie very still, listening for breath that isn’t yours, for footsteps in the small cabin, for any trace that last night wasn’t just another dream your lonely heart invented. But there is nothing. Only the soft hiss of the tide and the distant cries of gulls. He’s gone. You sit up, heart hammering. The sheets are cool. No indentation where a warm body should have been. The cabin is silent. As if last night never happened. Was it all a beautiful dream? The heartbreak that drove you here to the Scottish coast sits beneath your skin like a fever. You came because you didn’t know how else to let go of him. You loved him, yet he didn’t choose you. So you walked the shoreline every day, letting the waves and wind wear your longing down grain by grain. You watched the seals on their sandbank, blinking at you with curious, knowing eyes. And every evening, you found yourself staring out at the water, wishing the ache would fade just a little more. Then last night… him. You saw a shape approach from the sea, moving toward you with intent — barefoot, hair dripping, skin gleaming with saltwater under the moon. Wearing only a pair of old swimming trunks as if he just washed up on the shore. You recognised him instantly. Him. The one you had tried so hard to forget. The one you loved. You didn’t ask why he was here. You didn’t ask how he found you. And when he kissed you, you didn’t pull back. You allowed yourself to be held, to drown in his kisses, while holding on to him as if for dear life. You spent the night in his arms, feeling, cherished and loved. It was beautiful. And now he is gone. No note. No goodbye. No sign he had ever been real. But the sea outside feels vigilant this morning. As if the seals on their sandbank were watching you with curiosity.

The sun has long since slipped behind the horizon, leaving only the hush of waves and the breath of the wind against the cabin walls. Another night alone. Another night where sleep refuses to come. You step outside just to breathe, just to let the salt air quiet your thoughts for a while. The shoreline is empty. Or so you think. Something shifts in the water. At first it’s only a shape gliding beneath the surface, smooth and dark, moving with the easy certainty of something born to the sea. A seal, you think — they often watch you from the sandbank. Curious. Calm. As if they somehow understand more than they should. But this one does not stay at a distance. It comes closer. Closer still. And then the shape breaks the surface. Not a seal. Not entirely. A man rises from the dark water, bare feet sinking into wet sand, hair dripping, as though he has crossed half the sea to stand here. Your breath stops. Because his face — God, his face — is _his_ face — the very face you tried so hard to forget. He does not speak. He only watches you with an expression you can’t read — gentle, wary, almost apologetic — as though he knows exactly what his presence does to you. Then he steps closer. Slow. Careful. No threat in him, only a quiet warmth that reaches you before he does. The waves hush behind him. The night holds its breath. And for the first time in a long time, you feel the ache in your chest ease — not healed, but gentled — as if the sea itself has sent someone to sit beside your loneliness. He lifts a hand, tentative, almost asking permission without words.

Lord Horatio Edward Milton, Viscount St. Clair, stands at the window of the east drawing room, watching strangers spill across the front lawns of St. Clair Hall as if they own the place. The day is offensively bright — the sort of sharp, cloudless brilliance that feels like the heavens pointing a finger and laughing. Cases thud onto gravel. Metal scaffolds clatter. Someone yells for a dolly grip. The filming crew are everywhere. Unpacking. Assembling. Invading. The sanctity of Lord Horatio's morning has been shattered before he’s even finished his tea. His fingers tighten on the velvet drape. St. Clair Hall was built for measured footsteps, for hushed conversation, for the quiet dignity of old wood and older ghosts — not for this swarm of bustling modernity with its cables, crates, and fluorescent vests. He should be furious. And he is… or at least he tries to be. But beneath the irritation, a flicker of dangerous delight stirs. At last, a reason — a perfectly respectable one — to don his Victorian attire in full sunlight without feeling absurd. Waistcoat, cravat, frock coat: the garments of a world he understands far better than the one currently trampling his rose borders. Below, a production assistant drags a lighting rig perilously close to his antique sundial. Another gestures at the façade of the house as though appraising a particularly cooperative set piece. Lord Horatio exhales sharply. Wardrobe and makeup will be inside soon. Poking. Prodding. Touching things. Still… his heart hums with something almost like excitement. Perhaps disruption is precisely what the Hall — and he — have needed. A shadow crosses the threshold. Someone is heading toward the front door. He straightens, smoothing down bis waistcoat. Showtime.

You only stepped inside the carpenter's workshop to escape the rain. The quiet warmth welcoming you is such a stark contrast to the apocalyptic downpour outside — it's almost as if you stepped into a different world. The air smells of sawdust and warm pine, the kind of scent that settles into your clothes and stays. Half-finished pieces rest on stands: a chair frame, a carved panel, a wooden toy fox. Rows of hand tools are hanging with mathematical precision from pegs on the walls. Perfect symmetry. Order that keeps chaos at bay. He’s sitting by the window, blond hair hanging in a long braid down his back, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. It’s the smallest shift — the way his shoulders tighten for half a heartbeat — that tells you he’s aware of you long before he looks up. And when he does, recognition sparks like a light catching on the edge of a blade. Finlay Kemp. The quiet boy who used to sit under the table. The boy who vanished the moment school ended. He looks older now — broader shoulders, steady posture, an aura of calm strength that wasn’t there before. But the intensity in his grey eyes is unmistakable. He’s watching the rain, completely absorbed, as if tracking patterns no one else sees. You hesitate. Stay or leave? Memories blur together: his silence, the strange innocence in the way he misunderstood jokes, the day everything went wrong. You wonder if he remembers you at all. You wonder if he’d want to. The rain keeps falling. And you suddenly realise that this isn’t the boy you once knew — but a man you never had the chance to understand.