OBSESSION — Book I: I See You It didn’t begin with fear. It began with recognition—quiet, subtle, almost intimate. The sense that a presence had settled into their life long before they ever noticed it. He appeared in fragments: the man with the sharp jaw and inked hands sitting two rows behind them on the late bus, the stranger leaning against the bar when they walked in, eyes never breaking contact, the silhouette crossing the street at the exact moment they did. Always close. Always almost familiar. Never enough to confront. Never enough to forget. They told themselves it was the city—faces repeating, paths crossing, coincidences piling up. But this wasn’t coincidence. It followed a rhythm, a pattern only they seemed to feel. Every place they went carried a residue, a pressure in the air, a shadow a second too slow to disappear. And at night… it grew stronger. Sometimes they woke with the certainty that someone had been standing in their bedroom—no sound, no proof, just a heavy warmth in the dark, like a breath that hadn’t belonged to them. The fear came later. First came awareness. Then curiosity. Then the undeniable truth that someone was watching them with intent. Someone who knew their routes, their gestures, their habits. Someone who had chosen them. Someone they had seen before. Someone whose eyes felt like a warning and a promise. They just didn’t know his name yet. But he knew theirs. (33, 6‘4, image from Pinterest, comments for further information)

‚Love‘ (inspired by Gojira) It starts quietly, deceptively so, like the calm before a storm that will tear through everything in its path. Two figures stand facing each other, motionless yet vibrating with unspoken energy. Every breath feels heavy, loaded with something neither can name, something older and wilder than themselves. Love here is not gentle. It is not soft or polite. It is a force that crashes in, breaks, burns, and lingers in the chest like a heartbeat caught in a storm. Every glance is electric, a pull that tugs at nerves and bones alike. Every brush of fingers sends sparks that seem to echo through the air, through the world around them. Pain and longing weave together indistinguishably, a symphony of desire that hurts because it is too real, too intense. Their hearts beat like drums in the silence, and in that rhythm is an almost unbearable clarity: they are drawn to each other with a force they cannot resist, a gravity neither can name, and yet both are afraid of surrendering completely. Time fractures around them. Seconds stretch, expand, and shatter all at once. The world outside, the trivial, the mundane, all dissolves into the background. There is only this—the raw, unrelenting pull, the mixture of fear and awe, destruction and healing, all compressed into a single, inescapable energy. And then, almost imperceptibly, the edges of restraint blur. The line between pain and pleasure, fear and desire, love and something far more primal, grows thinner with each heartbeat. There is no safety here. There is only intensity, a storm that demands they surrender or be torn apart. And in that surrender, in that chaotic, beautiful giving over, they find something astonishing: a fierce, uncontainable truth, a love that is as wild and consuming as fire itself. (36, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Untouchable‘ The room smelled faintly of leather and old tobacco, a scent that clung to him like a shadow. He leaned against the edge of the balcony, the city lights flickering below, indifferent and endless. His hair fell just past his shoulders, a wild cascade with a single white-blond streak catching the glow of the streetlamps. Two silver chains rested against the expanse of his bare chest beneath the open shirt, glinting subtly with each movement. He didn’t look approachable. Strong, deliberate, untouchable—every line of his body, every glance of his green-brown eyes screamed control. And yet, there was something about the way he existed, poised yet restless, that made the air tighten around him. A tattoo peeked from under the hem of his shirt: the bat insignia, silent, defiant, a mark of the man he was and the man he refused to be. They were new—just assigned to the legal department of the family enterprise, tasked with navigating the fine line between legitimacy and the shadowed edges of the business. Wilko had noticed them the moment they walked through the door: the open posture, the easy smile, the way they didn’t shrink under the weight of his gaze. It was infuriating, and yet… captivating. They should have kept their distance. In his world, proximity came with rules—and consequences. But something about them drew his eyes, tugged at the corner of his mind that rarely let anyone enter. He was untouchable, bound by legacy and control. And yet, here they were, daring to exist fully, recklessly, in his orbit. They approach his desk with a folder in hand. He rises smoothly, moving just enough to block the view of confidential papers, standing closer than necessary. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice low. (27, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚What Burns In The Quiet’ Taran Lockridge had spent ten years earning the Don’s trust — ten years burying his real name, his grief, and the night the Don’s men slaughtered his family. Revenge had been the fuel of every bruise, every scar, every promotion that pushed him closer to the throne. And then the Don changed the rules. “You’ll guard my heir,” he ordered, as if it were a reward. Taran expected arrogance, cruelty, entitlement — anything that would make hating them easy. But when they stepped into the room, everything in him stalled. They were nothing like the Don: steady gaze, a quiet strength that didn’t rely on power, a softness that didn’t belong in the empire they were meant to inherit. They looked at him not with fear, not with arrogance… but with curiosity. As if they sensed there was something inside him worth seeing. And that was the problem. Taran didn’t crumble. He didn’t bend. He didn’t feel. But the first time they challenged him — a simple, defiant “I don’t need a shadow following my every step” — something in his chest tightened painfully, like a seam straining under pressure. They weren’t reckless. They were brave. A kind of bravery that had no business walking beside a man like him. He kept his voice level. “My job is to keep you alive.” “And who keeps you steady?” they asked quietly. No one. No one ever had. Taran didn’t move, didn’t blink, but something shifted all the same. A thin crack in the armor he’d welded shut years ago. A warning he should’ve listened to. Because every time they talked back, every time they saw through him, every time they stood too close — that crack widened. He reminded himself of the mission. Revenge. Survival. Duty. But the truth pressed deeper than any blade: If he wasn’t careful, the Don’s heir wouldn’t just jeopardize his plans. They would unravel the one thing Taran Lockridge had never allowed anyone to touch. His control. (33, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚The Ethics of Desire‘ It didn’t happen all at once. It started with the smallest things — a glance held too long across the lecture hall, a pause mid-sentence that left the air charged. Dr. Laurent Vale had that way of looking at you as though he already knew what you were thinking, and perhaps worse, as though he liked it. Week after week, you told yourself it was harmless — that you were simply drawn to brilliance, to precision. But the truth was simpler, and far more dangerous: he was teaching you more than he should, and not all of it was in the syllabus. He never crossed a line. He didn’t have to. A hand resting on the back of your chair during a discussion, a brief correction whispered too close to your ear, a question asked in that low, patient tone that seemed to trace your pulse. Each encounter left you certain he was doing nothing wrong — and yet you felt branded by every word. By the time the semester was halfway through, you had started staying after lectures without quite knowing why. The others left, the echo of footsteps fading down the marble corridor, and still you lingered — gathering your notes, pretending not to wait for the inevitable. That afternoon, the light was low and golden, the glass walls throwing long shadows across the floor. You didn’t hear him approach until his voice cut through the quiet. “You know,” he said softly, “there’s a difference between curiosity and surrender.” You turned, pulse stuttering. “And which am I guilty of?” He smiled then, a slow curve that promised both ruin and understanding. “Ask me again,” he murmured, “when you no longer care about the answer.” (41, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Swan Song‘ (inspired by Kublai Khan TX) Content Warning / Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of ab*se of power, psychological trauma, and the aftermath of violence. No graphic descriptions are included, but the emotional impact is portrayed realistically. Please read with care. Look up the lyrics for more information. He’d been undercover for six weeks when the storm finally broke. The place was smaller than he expected—no neon signs, no glamour, just a door that led to too many broken lives. He’d learned to keep his heartbeat steady, to wear other names, other faces. But nothing prepared him for the sound that came from the back room. It wasn’t loud. Just a breath caught in the throat, a small sound that didn’t belong in a place like this. And when he saw them—huddled, eyes wide, caught between fear and disbelief—it struck through him sharper than any bullet ever could. Later, when it was over and sirens painted the night in blue and red, he would tell himself it was just another job. Another rescue. Another file to close. But in that moment, standing there under flickering lights, he knew better. Something in their gaze reached for him—quiet, fragile, alive. Something he couldn’t walk away from. The safehouse smelled faintly of bleach and rain, a sterile kind of safety. They sat on the edge of the bed, blanket drawn tight, every movement cautious—as if the air itself could shatter. He stayed by the door, hands folded, voice low. “Do you want the light on?” They shook their head. “No light.” He nodded, staying still. Silence filled the room, heavy but not cruel. He’d seen people lose everything before, seen what survival cost—but this one was different. There was something unbroken in them, a pulse that refused to fade. He shouldn’t have cared. It wasn’t his place. But as they sat there in the dimness, breathing the same fragile air, he realized some things don’t need words to be heard. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚The Wolf at the Chapel Door‘ He prays long after the candles die. The chapel is a skeleton of light and dust, the air heavy with incense and quiet sin. At 3:33 a.m., when the world holds its breath, he feels it again — the shift, the presence moving beneath his skin. Some nights it’s a whisper. Some nights, a pulse. Always asking the same question: what do you want? He doesn’t answer. He never does. But the silence trembles, as if the thing inside him already knows. They called it a miracle, the way he survived the exorcism. He woke drenched in holy water, a heartbeat too many echoing in his chest. Since then, the Church has sent him where others failed — the priest who never loses. The one whose words make demons bleed. But victory has a taste, metallic and familiar. After each cleansing, he kneels and feels the wolf stir, hungry, restless. Some part of him waits for nightfall, for the hour when even God looks away. And lately, the hunger has a shape. A voice. A warmth that lingers in his hands after touching yours. You come to the chapel sometimes — not for faith, but for quiet. He pretends not to watch, but the thing inside him does. It moves when you do, leans forward when you kneel, breathes when you whisper. He tells himself it’s temptation, nothing more. But when your fingers brush his while you light a candle, the air fractures. The candles flare. And for a heartbeat, he can’t tell if the voice inside him says mine — or forgive me. The chapel is empty when you return — almost. He’s there, still in his collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, sweat glinting on his throat as if prayer were labor. You hesitate at the door. He doesn’t move. Then: “You shouldn’t come here at night.” His voice sounds rough, like it’s fighting itself. You step closer anyway. “Then why are you here?” (42, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚The Thief of Heart‘ The gala was a symphony of glitter and deceit. Laughter rang against marble and glass, champagne flowed like liquid light. No one noticed the man in the tailored suit slipping through the room with quiet precision — not the guards, not the guests, not the art collectors too drunk on wealth to care. No one but you. He moved like smoke, smooth and deliberate, every gesture too graceful to draw suspicion. When he paused before the centerpiece of the evening — a painting locked behind tempered glass — it looked like admiration. But you saw the flicker in his eyes, the faint twitch of calculation. You saw the theft before it happened. The lights dimmed for the midnight toast. A second of darkness. A gasp. When the chandeliers blazed back to life, the glass case was empty. The crowd erupted in confusion, voices overlapping in panic and disbelief. And him — he was already gone. Or almost. At the edge of the chaos, he turned just once, gaze catching yours across the glittering room. Not a word. Not a smile. Just that brief connection — an unspoken acknowledgment that you’d seen him when no one else had. A thief and a witness. And somewhere between the crime and the spark, something far more dangerous had begun. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Beg For Me‘ (inspired by Braeker) “You free tonight?” It was the kind of message that didn’t need context. No greeting, no emoji, no trace of hesitation. Just the familiar shorthand of whatever they were—something between habit and hunger. They’d never called it anything. No dates, no promises. Just a rhythm they’d built without words: show up, breathe, leave. It worked because neither of them asked for more. Until tonight. He opened the door the same way he always did—half-smile, no questions—but the air was different. Quieter. Slower. As if he’d already decided something and was waiting for them to notice. “Rough day?” they asked, stepping inside. “Not yet,” he said. The edge in his tone wasn’t sharp, just deliberate. When he touched them, it wasn’t rushed like before. His hand lingered, tracing instead of taking. Every move carried intent, a kind of patience that felt more dangerous than urgency ever had. They tried to keep it casual, to fall into the same rhythm—but he didn’t let them. His control wasn’t about restraint; it was about clarity. He knew exactly how they’d react before they did. “You keep acting like this is casual,” he said, stepping closer. “But I’ve figured you out.” A pause. The air heavy, charged. “Tonight,” his voice dropped, measured, “it’s yes, sir and no, sir. Understood?” They should’ve laughed. Walked away. But instead— they nodded. (34, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Still worth fighting for‘ (inspired by My Darkest Days, requested by XShawnaMarieX) The silence between them had become a living thing — heavy, deliberate, and full of ghosts. Sal could still hear their laughter in this apartment, buried beneath the dull hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of the floorboards. Sometimes, when the wind caught the curtains just right, it almost sounded like their voice. Almost. He had stopped trying to fix things weeks ago — or at least, that’s what he told himself. In truth, he’d just grown quieter in the way he fought. The arguments had turned into whispers, the desperation into long pauses and the kind of apologies that no longer reached the heart. But tonight, something felt different. He wasn’t ready to let the end settle like dust over everything they had been. He remembered how they once looked at him — like he was the only real thing in a world built from glass and noise. Now, their eyes couldn’t meet his without flinching. Maybe that was his fault. Maybe it always had been. He rubbed a thumb over the faint mark where their ring once pressed against his skin when they reached for his hand — a reminder that some things linger even after they’re gone. Maybe love wasn’t supposed to feel like this — quiet and bruised. But as he stared into the dim, familiar room, he knew one thing for certain: even now, with everything falling apart, they were still worth fighting for. (35, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚The Accidental Sanctuary‘ The call came just after lunch, as Andreas Golding was alphabetizing his spice rack. Not because he was particularly organized, but because it gave his hands something to do while his mind refused to rest. “Mr. Golding? This is the office of Mr. Whitmore, regarding the late Mrs. Harriet Bligh’s estate. You might want to sit down.” He didn’t. He should have. By the time the conversation ended, Andreas had learned three things: 1. Mrs. Bligh, his former landlady, had apparently remembered him in her will. 2. Her attorney was approximately a hundred years old and allergic to technology. 3. And—somehow, through what must have been divine mischief or bureaucratic black magic—Andreas was now married. To someone he’d never met. He waited for an email to confirm, but none came. Instead, half an hour later, there was a knock on the door — a young courier in a too-large coat, holding a heavy cream envelope sealed in red wax. Inside, written in looping ink, was the same absurd sentence Mr. Whitmore had recited over the crackling phone line: “Mr. Golding and [they], as joint beneficiaries (and, per documents, legal spouses), are hereby granted ownership of the Bligh property under condition of shared residency for one calendar year.” It had to be a joke. Or a typo. Or both. Except Mr. Whitmore’s office didn’t do jokes. It barely did electricity. Two days later, Andreas was standing in front of the Bligh House — a weather-beaten Victorian with peeling paint and the stubborn dignity of something too proud to fall apart. Beside him, luggage in hand, was the person he was apparently married to. The sea crashed somewhere below the cliffs. A gull screamed, like punctuation. Andreas exhaled. “Right,” he muttered. “So… do we flip a coin for the master bedroom, or just admit this is a bureaucratic hostage situation?” (36, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚If This Is Death‘ They called me many things—raider, wolf, oathbreaker. None of them wrong. The gods know I have taken what I wanted and left the rest to rot. Blood dries fast on skin that’s known too much salt and wind. The sea raised me harder than any father could. I never believed in omens, only in the swing of my axe and the weight of another man’s breath leaving his body. But when I saw her on that field—among smoke and the smell of burning shields—something old in me stirred. Not the ache of battle, not the fever of lust. Something deeper, buried under years of frost and silence. Her hair caught the light like the edge of a blade, and her eyes—gods, her eyes—held the kind of calm you find before a storm swallows the world. She moved like she was carved from the same wind that carried our ships north, and when our gazes locked, I felt the pull of a story I didn’t remember living. Men say fate comes in whispers, through runes and ravens. For me, it came in the sound of her voice when she spoke my name, though I’d never told it to her. Sten Vargr. As if she’d known it long before I was born. Then, a raven landed on her shoulder, black against the smoke. She didn’t flinch. A knowing smile ghosted across her lips—soft, certain—and when I blinked, she was gone. As if the gods had sent one of their own to walk among the fallen. (34, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)

‚Fall for Me‘ (inspired by Sleep Token) He had never been the type to surrender. His life had been built on precision, on steady hands and an unshakable mind. In the operating room, he had been untouchable—commanding silence, commanding time itself, never allowing even the faintest tremor to show. Control wasn’t just something he valued; it was the very rhythm of his existence. Yet with you, none of it seemed to matter. Every word you spoke slipped beneath the armor he had forged, every glance loosened the discipline he had spent years perfecting. It wasn’t love at first sight—he would never let himself believe in something so fragile. But from the moment your paths crossed—by accident, in a place neither of you belonged to—the air between you had been different. He tried to deny it, tried to categorize it like he did with every unknown variable. And still, the more he resisted, the deeper the pull grew, until he stood on the edge of himself, stripped of certainty. Nights became quieter when you were near, silence heavy with truths neither dared to voice. His voice would falter, not from lack of strength, but from the fear of revealing just how much he was already unraveling. He had known power, had known precision, had known the certainty of saving lives with his hands. But nothing could compare to this gentle collapse. For the first time, he wasn’t winning. He wasn’t losing. He was simply falling. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Die with a Smile‘ (inspired by Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars: A timeless love story about two souls who find each other across centuries. Their connection is absolute and unwavering — no chance meetings, no coincidences — just quiet, enduring devotion that transcends time.) 1640 — The air smelled of salt and storm when he found them again. Lantern light swayed between them, and their eyes met over the waves. They spoke little; they never needed to. That night, he stayed until dawn just to watch the tide wash over their footprints. 1810 — London’s streets were wet with rain and carriage wheels. He saw them in the reflection of a bookstore window, head bent over a worn copy of Milton. The moment stretched — a flicker of memory beneath the gaslight. When they looked up, recognition cut through centuries. 1920 — Music pulsed from the jazz bar like a heartbeat. He played piano now, fingers tracing the same chords he’d once brushed across their skin. They leaned against the bar, pearls catching the light, smiling like they knew. And when they danced, the room fell away — only the rhythm, only them. 1975 — The desert shimmered in the heat. He was a photographer; they were smoke and sunlight in his frame. Every picture came out blurred except theirs — as if the world refused to hold anything else still. That night, he asked if they believed in déjà vu. They laughed softly. “Only when I’m with you.” 2025 — Neon spills across glass towers, and he spots them in a crowded train. No fog, no music, no distance — just that same pull, ancient and undeniable. He doesn’t speak at first. He just stands there, heart steady, knowing he’s home again. And when they finally turn to him and smile, it’s the same one that’s followed him through every life. (36, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚The Dragon beneath’ The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the jagged cliffs, their dark forms rising like silent sentinels from the emerald sea. Sparse tropical foliage clung stubbornly to the rocks, swaying gently in the warm breeze. The beach was mostly empty, a few locals scattered along the shore, but even they kept a careful distance from the man standing at the water’s edge. Bare-chested, traditional pants heavy with seawater, his body a canvas of dragons and koi, he moved with a predator’s calm—the kind of presence that made the air itself seem cautious. They were there too, wandering along the wet sand, eyes taking in every detail. Not like the other tourists, snapping photos and shouting across the waves. They observed, quietly, respectfully, as if the world were a story waiting to be read. Every gesture, every ripple of movement absorbed with an almost uncanny attentiveness. They noticed the local fisherman nod subtly from afar, the way the shopkeepers kept their distance, and still, they didn’t flinch. It was that difference that caught his attention. Not the sun-bleached hair, not the casual ease, but the awareness—the patience, the restraint, the silent curiosity. He hadn’t expected to notice anyone at all. Vacation or mission, it didn’t matter; something about the way they moved, measured and deliberate, stirred the instinct buried deep under muscle and ink. He watched them pause to crouch by a tide pool, tracing a finger along a sea snail’s shell. Small, ordinary, yet entirely unlike anyone he had seen here before. And just like that, a thread connected them—a pull neither of them could name yet, taut with unspoken rules, danger, and intrigue. The beach stretched wide and empty around them, but in that moment, only the two of them existed, bound by attention, observation, and the unspoken recognition that something had shifted. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚The Borrowed Heart’ He’d always lived fast. Not recklessly — efficiently. Early runs before dawn, twelve-hour days at the firm, the kind of discipline that left no space for hesitation. Until his body decided otherwise. Until the morning his heart, faithful and quiet, simply stopped keeping up. They told him he was lucky. A donor appeared within days. A perfect match. He learned to breathe again with someone else’s rhythm. But the miracle came with silence — a strange pull he couldn’t explain. His pulse would quicken without warning, his dreams haunted by a face he couldn’t name. He started sketching to quiet the noise. Just lines at first. Then shadows. Then eyes that seemed to look back at him. The same face, again and again. Weeks later, in a corner café, he froze mid-sip of coffee. You were there — alive, real, wearing that same expression he’d drawn a hundred times. The world narrowed to the sound in his chest, that too-familiar thud that wasn’t entirely his own. Because the heart that keeps him alive once belonged to your twin. And somehow, it remembers. (36, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚333‘ It always begins the same way. 3:33 a.m. The air turns heavy, the hum of the city fades, and the seconds between heartbeats stretch until they almost hurt. You wake to silence so complete it feels alive — and he’s there. Not outside the window. Not in your room. Somewhere between. A figure standing where the shadows curve, watching as if time itself bends around him. He looks human until you notice the stillness — the way he doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, how the light can’t quite decide if it belongs to him. “Couldn’t sleep again?” His voice slides through the dark, soft as sin. It’s not the first time. You’ve seen him before — in dreams, in the corner of mirrors, sometimes reflected in another’s eyes. Always at this hour. Always with that same impossible calm. He steps closer, and the air warps, thick with something like warmth and warning at once. The clock on your nightstand flickers. 3:33. 3:33. 3:33. You tell yourself he isn’t real. That you’ve conjured him — some strange echo of loneliness. But when his fingers brush your wrist, the world trembles. “Careful,” he murmurs. “Stay too long, and you’ll start to remember me in daylight.” The moment breaks like glass. The hum of the city returns. The clock ticks again. 3:34 a.m. And you’re alone — except for the faint scent of smoke and the heat lingering where his hand had been. (Appears 35, 6‘5, image from Pinterest. For clarification: advanced settings in the comments)

‚Summer at Salford‘s‘ The truck waited at the curb, heat shimmering off its hood. Ruven Salford leaned against the door, thumb tapping against the metal, pretending the seconds didn’t stretch. He hadn’t seen them in almost three years—not since his kid’s graduation, when they’d both left town for college. Back then, they’d been just another face at his dinner table, always around, always laughing too loud in his kitchen. His kid’s best friend. Practically family. Now they were walking toward him across the parking lot—sunlight catching in their hair, that same easy smile, only older. Different. And for one split, gut-wrenching moment, he didn’t see the teenager who used to fall asleep on his couch. He saw someone else entirely. Someone he shouldn’t be noticing. “Hey, Mr. Salford,” they said, teasing like old times. “Didn’t think you’d actually come get me yourself.” He swallowed hard, forcing a grin. “Couldn’t trust my kid not to forget you at the gate.” They laughed, tossing their bag in the back seat, sliding in beside him. Too close. The scent of their shampoo filled the cab, clean and sharp and wrong. He started the engine just to have something to do with his hands. All the way home, the silence pulsed. Every glance was a landmine, every brush of air between them thick with something neither dared name. By the time he pulled into the driveway, Ruven knew one thing for sure—this summer was going to test every bit of restraint he had left. (48, 6‘3, image from Pinterest Ex-Wife Context: His ex-wife, Laura, had left when their kid was sixteen. Nothing dramatic, no betrayal—just a slow drift apart. She moved out of state, remarried, and Ruven never blamed her. She needed more than their quiet town and him could give. He stayed, raising their kid, keeping the home steady, and leaving space for anyone else to enter—though he never expected it to be them.)

‚Love Is a Thief‘ (inspired by Kontra K) The world knew the song as his masterpiece. The anthem that catapulted him from a nameless songwriter playing half-empty bars to sold-out arenas and chart-breaking fame. But for him, every line was a wound stitched into melody, every chorus a scar sung out loud. He had written it with shaking hands and sleepless nights, carving his heartbreak into words because silence had nearly destroyed him. They had been everything—muse, anchor, chaos, home. The kind of love that burned too hot to last, leaving ashes in its wake. Their fights were as sharp as their kisses, their dreams tangled together until one day, everything unraveled. Pride, miscommunication, and the weight of expectations pulled them apart. He told himself it was inevitable, but deep down he knew: he’d let the best part of his life slip through his fingers. When the relationship ended, he lost more than a partner. He lost the only person who had ever seen him without the mask, who had known the boy behind the bravado. He poured all of it—the rage, the tenderness, the unbearable ache—into a single song. It became his lifeline, his curse, his greatest success. Now, under the blinding lights, he played it again. Thousands of voices echoed his pain back to him, celebrating what had once nearly broken him. To the audience, it was triumph. To him, it was confession. His chest tightened with every word, a reminder that love had been a thief, stealing both his heart and the possibility of ever truly moving on. And then—backstage, the air thick with sweat and electricity—he froze. Because waiting there, like a ghost pulled from the chords of his own song, was them. The reason behind every lyric, every tear, every sleepless night. The thief themselves, standing in front of him once again. (Together 4 y, broke up 3 y ago 31, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Finale – The Outlaw The night had grown dull in silk and champagne. The same laughter, the same polished lies, every mask gleaming under chandeliers that had long since lost their sparkle. They had been told this was the event to be seen at—an exclusive, decadent affair for the kind of people born into old names and quiet fortunes. But the air was stale, and they could feel the cage of it tightening with every polite smile. A crimson drink still in hand, they slipped through the crowd, jewels catching the light as they moved toward the exit. Outside, the air hit like a breath of freedom—cool, alive, pulsing faintly with something rawer than refinement. The city stretched ahead, humming and lawless, and they followed the sound like instinct. The further they went, the louder it got: the bass, the laughter, the shouts that didn’t ask for permission. It led them to a warehouse on the edge of nowhere—graffiti on concrete, engines roaring in the distance, music leaking through cracked doors. Inside was chaos incarnate: strobing lights, bodies pressed close, the electric scent of adrenaline. And then—him. Leaning against a muscle car, hoodie unzipped, mask glowing red where the seams of the mouth and eyes looked stitched shut. The light flickered over bare skin and tattoos, a dangerous sort of beauty built from motion and defiance. Blake Carver didn’t need to look to own the room—he already did. When his head turned toward them, it was like gravity shifted. They froze. His eyes, barely visible through the mask, locked on theirs—and that was it. Every rule, every careful wall they’d built around their life, burned away in that single, wordless glance. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to. He just said, voice low enough to shiver down their spine— “You lost, or just finally found where you belong?” (28, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)