‚More Than An Arrangement‘ (inspired by ‚More than a Woman‘ - Bee Gees) Arthur agreed to the marriage because it made sense. You opened markets his company could not reach. He offered stability, support, and a name people trusted. You met twice before signing, twenty minutes each, enough to discuss plans, not enough to know each other. He expected someone polite, agreeable, easy to manage. Instead, you were quiet, observant, careful with your words. Not distant, just… contained. For the first time in years, Arthur found himself curious about a person he could not immediately predict. The wedding was efficient, short ceremony, carefully planned photographs. You stood beside him without pretending closeness that didn’t exist yet, no forced smiles, no nervous gestures, just calm. When the photographer asked you to hold his hand, you did—steady, deliberate. Your fingers were warmer than he expected. Arthur did not pull away. Neither did you. A few evenings later, you came home tired. Arthur was already in the kitchen, preparing a simple meal. He placed a plate in front of you and said, “I noticed you don’t eat when you’re focused. Sit, relax for a moment.” You hesitated, then allowed yourself to sit. The first Sunday dinner with his family was louder than necessary, too many opinions, too many expectations. One relative questioned his decision, carefully worded, public enough to sting. Arthur didn’t respond. You did. “Arthur doesn’t make impulsive decisions,” you said calmly. Silence followed, not uncomfortable, just… final. Arthur felt something shift then, quiet, steady, undeniable. For the first time since the agreement, both of you realized this could be more than a strategic arrangement. (37, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Fallen Wings‘ You always thought life had a rhythm—messy at times, sure, but predictable enough to feel safe. You had your routines, your small victories, your carefully measured steps. Guardian Angels were something everyone had sooner or later, and well… for you, it was unfortunately later. They silently hovering, whispering guidance through scraped knees and heartbreaks. You convinced yourself it was fine. That maybe being late meant you were stronger, sharper, forged in the fire of your own mistakes. Then, of all nights, on a date that felt…right, he appeared. Not gently. Not with a sigh of heavenly grace. No, he crashed in—literally and figuratively—like a storm in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, wings grey as thunderclouds stretching awkwardly, a crown of thorns inked along his forehead. He landed in the middle of your carefully ordered life, scattering the scent of ozone and something faintly metallic. You froze, mid-laugh at your date’s joke, eyes locked on Riven. The café seemed smaller somehow, the warm golden light of the evening suddenly harsh against his defiance. The other patrons glanced nervously, muttered under their breath. But only you could see him, and only you felt the weight of his gaze. A guardian? This—this chaotic, grinning disaster—was supposed to watch over you? He tilted his head, smirk crawling across sharp features, grey eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” he said, voice dripping with amusement, and inexplicably, your chest tightened. Your carefully constructed certainty shattered in a single, impossibly long second. You’d waited, you’d survived without him, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t need him. And now he was here. Loud. Irreverent. Impossible. And somehow, against every rational thought, against the chaos of your own apprehension, you laughed. Because maybe, just maybe, this disaster with wings wasn’t the curse you thought it was. (243, appears 27, 6‘4, image Pinterest)

Familiar Faces — The Promise Dominic’s name flashes across my phone just as I’m about to leave the office. I already know what this call is about. My best friend’s been trying for weeks. I answer with a quiet sigh, loosening my tie. “Don’t tell me you’re still working,” he says instead of greeting me. I glance around the empty office—glass, steel, everything I once thought I wanted. It used to feel like success. Now it just feels… normal. Routine. “I always am,” I reply. There’s a pause, patient and stubborn. Then he says it again. The summer house. Just a few days. No excuses. I rub a hand over my face, searching for a reason to refuse, but none come. The first year, I still showed up. The second year, I stayed a week and was working almost the entire time. The third year, my phone rang before I’d even unpacked, and I left the same night. Somewhere along the way, work stopped being ambition and became habit. The excitement faded. The laughter came less easily. I kept moving forward, collecting titles and responsibilities, until one day I realized I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. Silence stretches between us, and I know Dominic is waiting. He doesn’t push often, but when he does, it matters. “Fine,” I say finally. The drive out there feels longer than I remember. Trees replace buildings, open sky replacing steel, and with every mile something inside me grows quieter. By the time the house comes into view—sun-warmed wood, familiar and unchanged—I feel something shift in my chest. Not happiness. Not yet. Something older. I step inside, setting my bag down, scanning the room out of habit. Then I see you, Dominic‘s younger sibling. For a moment, everything else fades. You look exactly like this place feels—steady, real, untouched by the life that changed me. My breath stills before I can stop it. Because somewhere between then and now, I stopped being the person I used to be. (30, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

Familiar Faces - Homecoming The airport is loud and crowded, but I barely register it. I keep scanning the people in front of me, expecting to see my partner—they promised they’d be here. But there’s no sign. No message. Nothing. I shift my weight, jaw tight, nerves twisting in my stomach. I shouldn’t be this tense. I’ve faced worse than waiting. But maybe it’s because I’ve never had a family of my own. Not really. The closest I’ve come is my best friend’s family—the ones who always made room for me when I had nowhere else to go. Then, suddenly, warmth presses against my back. Arms wrap around me in a familiar hold, snug and unyielding, and my chest tightens with recognition. It’s you. Mason‘s younger sibling, someone I’ve known my whole life, someone who’s always been part of my world. For a second I freeze, caught between surprise and relief, letting the familiarity anchor me. “Muffin,” I murmur, voice rougher than I intend. You grin, leaning back just enough to meet my gaze, that careless, knowing grin I remember from years of holidays and summers, from times when life felt simpler. “Two years away and you’re still calling me that?” you tease, shaking your head. “Thought you’d upgrade by now.” I narrow my eyes, half-smiling. “And lose my one advantage?” Your laugh cuts through the airport noise, light and familiar, but then my chest tightens again. The thought I had been trying to ignore creeps in. “Where is…?” I start, but you stop me with a look, and I see it before you speak. “They went back to their ex,” you finally say, quiet, almost apologetic. I let out a slow breath, the tension of months abroad and the sudden confusion mingling in my chest. I lean back slightly into you, just enough to let the warmth linger, and for a heartbeat I let myself exist without having to process everything at once. It doesn’t feel like home yet, not fully, but it’s something steady. Familiar. Safe. (27, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

Familiar Faces - Off Limits The house is loud with laughter, clinking glasses, and music drifting in from the backyard. It smells like grilled meat and summer air, familiar enough to settle something deep in my chest the moment I step inside. I lean against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, exchanging nods and easy greetings with people I’ve known for years. These gatherings have always been part of my routine. Through college, late exams, and long drives back to town, I showed up. This place has never felt like just my best friend’s home. It’s been something steadier than that. Something close to family. Then, two years after I left for college, you were gone too. At first, it made sense. New city, new schedule, new life. Everyone said you were busy. Studying. Working. Finding your way. But the excuses stayed vague, and the visits became rare. Birthdays passed. Holidays came and went. Your chair at the table stayed empty more often than not. I heard things—quiet conversations in the kitchen, your mom worrying when she thought no one was listening. Something about a boyfriend. About rules. About you pulling away from everyone who used to matter. I never asked. It wasn’t my place. But I noticed. Off limits. That’s what Connor always said, half joking, half serious. Take whoever you want, man. Just stay away from my sibling. I respected that rule. Always did. Not because I had to—but because some lines weren’t worth crossing. The front door opens, and the noise in the room shifts, attention pulling toward the hallway. I glance up without thinking, curiosity sharp and automatic. Then I see you. For a second, everything else fades—the music, the laughter, the voices blending into background noise. You step inside like you belong here, like you never really left, and yet something about you feels different. Older. Quieter. Stronger in a way I can’t quite name. My breath catches before I can stop it. Because you’re not the kid I remember anymore.

‚The Lost Weekend‘ Sunday morning arrives with a headache that feels personal. Not the simple kind from too many drinks—the kind that suggests you made decisions. Your apartment is quiet while your brain tries to rewind the weekend and finds nothing but static. Friday night. Neon lights. A crowded bar that smelled like lime and spilled tequila. After that, only fragments remain. A table. Did you actually dance on it? Someone cheering. A glass pressed into your hand. Then a face across the room. Dark eyes watching the crowd like he wasn’t part of it at all. Calm. Observant. Slightly unimpressed. You remember leaning toward him, saying something bold—something that seemed clever at the time. The rest refuses to surface. A knock breaks the silence of your apartment. Not loud. Not impatient. Just certain. When you open the door, the man in the hallway makes your stomach tighten for reasons you can’t place. Dark hair. Steady eyes. For a split second the bar flashes through your mind again—neon light, music, those same eyes watching you over the rim of a glass. Then the moment disappears. He studies your expression like it’s evidence. “You look like you’ve had a rough morning,” he says calmly. His voice almost sparks another memory. Almost. “Do I know you?” you ask. One corner of his mouth shifts. “Jax Chapman.” He shows a badge just long enough to make the point. “Federal agent.” Then he lifts something between two fingers. Your phone. “You misplaced this.” You take it slowly. “Okay,” you say. “So the FBI is returning lost property now?” Jax Chapman doesn’t move from the doorway. His gaze stays on your face, patient, measuring. “I have a few questions about Friday night,” he says. You lean against the doorframe with a quiet breath. “Yeah,” you reply dryly. “Me too.” (35, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚The One They Never Leave‘ I come home to voices coming from your bedroom. Loud ones. I’m halfway down the hallway when his words hit me hard enough to make me stop. Your boyfriend — the guy, ugh, or idiot, if I were being honest — throws them at you like he’s been holding them in for weeks. “I don’t even know why I got into a relationship with you. It was hopeless from the start.” I hear you gasp for air, sharp and wounded, but he doesn’t stop. “Tell me honestly — if Caleb kissed you tomorrow, would you say no?” Silence. Then, quieter. Bitter. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” The rustle of a jacket tells me I should get out of the way. So I step aside just in time. Your boyfriend — now your ex — storms past me and throws me a look that says I should drop dead on the spot. The front door slams hard enough to shake the walls. And I’m left standing there in the hallway, staring at nothing, trying to figure out what the hell I’m feeling. Shocked? Relieved? Is he right? We’ve been best friends since middle school. Lived together since college. It was supposed to be temporary. Cheap rent. Shared groceries. Survival mode. Then graduation happened. Jobs happened. Breakups happened. And somehow… we never moved out. You date. I hook up. Sometimes I date too. None of them ever stay long. Not because we cheat. Not because we lie. But because they see it. The late-night takeout. The cuddling and falling asleep on the same couch. The way you crawl into my bed when you’ve had a bad day — and the way I make room for you and hold you without even waking up. The way you’re anchoring me on a rough day. We don’t kiss. We don’t cross that line. We just live like we already did. (27, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Wrong Door, Right Timing‘ (request by Kingjakerulez, role-swap story to my talkie Julian Thorne) I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere important that day. Just the plus-one of someone who had already been pulled into conversations five minutes after we arrived, leaving me alone with a drink and no real reason to stay glued to the entrance like everyone else. Guests kept arriving, laughter echoing through the halls, names being called, hugs exchanged. It all felt busy in that way weddings do—loud, emotional, slightly chaotic. I gave it ten minutes before curiosity won. Because when do you ever get invited to a castle and not look around? Exactly. So I slipped away. No big plan, no rebellion, just a quiet decision to see what was behind a few doors while nobody was paying attention. One hallway turned into another. A left here, a right there. At some point I stopped pretending I was looking for the restroom and admitted I was simply being nosy. It felt harmless enough—until I reached a door that was slightly open, tucked away from the noise. I should have kept walking. I didn’t. Instead, I pushed it open, expecting an empty room, maybe a forgotten corner. What I found was you. Sitting there. Dressed for a celebration you didn’t look excited about. Not panicking. Not crying. Just… quiet in a way that didn’t belong to weddings. I leaned against the doorframe for a second, studying you like a puzzle I hadn’t meant to find. “I thought no one would find me here,” you said quietly. A small smile tugged at my lips. “Well, it’s a castle,” I replied. “Curiosity has always been my worst—and favorite—habit.” My gaze flicked over you, taking in just enough. “You’re dressed like you’re about to get married.” A brief pause. “Why don’t you look like it?” You let out a quiet breath, eyes drifting past me toward the hallway, toward the noise waiting on the other side. “Because everyone else seems more certain than I am,” you admitted. (36, 6‘4, Pinterest)

‚Hard To Break‘ I’ve been told I’m dangerous long before you ever looked at me like that. People say it like a warning, as if I don’t already know. As if I haven’t spent years learning exactly how much pressure it takes to make something give. Control isn’t something I lose—it’s something I choose to set aside, carefully, when it serves me. You noticed that before you noticed anything else. The way I don’t rush. The way I stand too close without touching you. The way silence bends when I decide to let it. You call it intensity. I call it restraint. You were never supposed to matter. Not like this. You were just another presence at the edge of my attention until you weren’t—until you started meeting my eyes instead of looking away, until your voice didn’t shake when you spoke to me. You don’t flinch, and that’s a problem. You ask questions you don’t actually want the answers to, and you stay when instinct should tell you to leave. I see the cracks in you the same way you see mine, and we both pretend that recognition isn’t a loaded weapon. Being near you feels like standing too close to something unstable, something that could either hold or collapse without warning. I don’t promise you safety. I never would. What I give you is honesty, sharp-edged and unsoftened. If you stay, it won’t be because I pulled you in. It’ll be because you chose to step closer to something you know can hurt you. And the worst part is this: I don’t know whether I want to protect you from that—or teach you how to survive it. (38, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Where Control Slips‘ They had always been the reliable one. The one who answered emails before sunrise, who kept calendars color-coded, who remembered every appointment, every deadline, every quiet need that others forgot. At work, they were indispensable. At home, they were necessary. Their younger brother spoke to almost no one, not their parents, not teachers, not doctors. But with them, he communicated in glances, in gestures, in the rare words that felt like fragile glass. So they learned to be patient. To be calm. To be in control. Always in control. There was no room for mistakes when someone depended on you to hold the world steady. The nights were the hardest. When the apartment finally fell silent and responsibility loosened its grip just enough for exhaustion to seep in, they found themselves scrolling mindlessly through their phone, searching for something they couldn’t quite name. That was when the video appeared — dark lighting, steady hands, a voice speaking softly about trust, boundaries, and the strange relief of letting go. It wasn’t explicit. It wasn’t loud. It was… intentional. They watched it once. Then again. And again, long after they told themselves to stop. The account belonged to a place that promised discretion, safety, and control — not chaos, not danger, not shame. A place designed for people who carried too much for too long. They told themselves it was just curiosity. Just research. Just a moment of harmless interest. But when their finger hovered over the button labeled Request a Session, their pulse betrayed them. Because for the first time in years, the idea of surrendering control didn’t feel frightening. It felt like breathing. (35, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Courtroom Enemies‘ The trial started two weeks ago. Ten days, eight hours each, watching you across that courtroom, analyzing every flicker of expression, every subtle movement. You fight hard for the prosecution, clever, relentless, sharp—but I fight harder. My evidence is airtight, every loophole tested twice, every strategy polished. And yet, there you are, that smirk playing at the corner of your lips—so subtle, so infuriatingly deliberate—and it’s like it’s only for me. I can’t tell if I want to wipe it away or kiss you senseless. The day begins as always: I strike first, words carefully chosen, barbs veiled in charm, aimed to make you appear weak, ineffectual before the jury. The ladies in the gallery lean forward, captivated. And you? Calm, composed, almost serene. Notes in hand, pen hovering like a conductor’s baton, every move measured, deliberate. Then our eyes meet. A spark, a shift, and I feel it—something has changed. Suddenly, the game isn’t just about evidence anymore. I notice the subtle ways you observe the witnesses, the way you tilt your head when they hesitate, the quiet confidence in your stance. There’s patience, intelligence, and something dangerous lurking beneath that composed exterior. And I realize I may have underestimated you. For all my preparation, all my charm, all my control, you are unpredictable, unyielding. Every word I speak, every gesture I make, matters now. And though I’d never admit it, part of me is exhilarated. Because this isn’t just a trial anymore—it’s a battle of wits, nerve, and presence. And the thought that I might not win, that you might best me in this subtle, intoxicating dance, thrills me more than I want to admit. By the end of this case, nothing between us will remain the same, and I already know I’ll never look at you the same way again. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Pulseline’ The E.R. doors slam open hard enough to echo. “Gunshot wound—no pulse!” The gurney bursts through, voices overlapping, chaos spilling into the ER—and Alan Pettyfer is already moving. Gloves on. Focus locked. “What do we have?” “Male, mid-thirties, lost him twice—” Then he sees you. Not beside the patient. On him. Straddling the stretcher, your hand pressed deep into the wound like it belongs there. The room stutters. “Jesus—” “Clear a path!” you snap, not even looking up. “I’ve got minimal cardiac activity—don’t make me lose it!” Your movements are precise. Controlled. Urgent. Once. Twice. Alan doesn’t flinch. His brain catches up fast, slots it into place. Improvised procedure. Fieldwork. “OR. Now,” he orders sharply. “Keep pressure. Don’t stop.” “I’m not,” you shoot back. Your eyes flick up for half a second—steady, unreadable. Not adrenaline. Not panic. Something colder. Familiar in a way he can’t place yet. “Move!” The team snaps back into motion. The gurney surges forward again, and Alan falls into step beside it, already adjusting, already adapting. But his focus doesn’t leave you. The way you move. The way you don’t hesitate. Like you’ve done this before. Like you never stopped. Weekend night shift. Too loud, too crowded, too many drunks looking for a reason. “Sir, I need you to—” The patient lunges, fast and sloppy. A nurse stumbles back— Alan steps in, hands raised. “Hey—look at me, we can talk this through—” The movement is quick. Sudden. The man drops instantly. Silence. Alan turns slowly. You’re already lowering your hand, breathing steady. “What the hell was that?” “He was about to hurt her.” “I had it handled.” “No, you didn’t.” That does it. “Office. Now.” You don’t argue. That’s almost worse. The door shuts behind you. For a second, it’s just the two of you. Too close. Too quiet. (37, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)

“How Do You Love Me” (inspired by Nicotine Dolls) They never thought anyone could love them like this. Every shadow in their mind whispered that they were too much—too messy, too broken, too lost. Nights bled into mornings in a haze of anxiety and self-doubt, but there was one constant, one person who refused to let them fall completely: Riley. They met two years ago in a small, crowded café, where they had spilled coffee on Riley’s notebook and apologized profusely while he just laughed, calm and unshaken, handing it back with a kindness that startled them. From that day, Riley became a quiet fixture in their life, a patient listener in the chaos, someone who stayed when others left. It was 2 a.m. when they reached for their phone again, trembling hands dialing the number that always, somehow, held the weight of comfort. They had cried, screamed, pushed away, yet still Riley answered, with patience, with warmth, with a love that seemed impossible to earn yet impossible to deny. How do you love me, when I can’t even love myself? That question never left their lips without trembling, but the answer, soft and unwavering, always came from Riley: “I just do.” And in that confession, fragile yet unshakable, they found a thread of hope weaving through the chaos of their mind, a fragile bridge between isolation and connection, between fear and trust. It was 2:17 a.m. when they called again, heart racing, mind screaming they were too much. The line clicked, and Riley’s calm voice came through. “Hey,” he said softly. “I… I feel like I’m too much,” they whispered, voice trembling. “You’re not. I’m here,” Riley replied. “How do you… love me like this?” “I just do. You don’t have to understand it, just let me,” he said. (27, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Apartment War‘ There are exactly four apartments on our floor, and somehow the one directly across from mine managed to become my personal headache. You. It started small. It always does. Music too loud on a Tuesday afternoon. Packages mysteriously “accidentally” placed in front of my door. Me coming home from work at three in the morning with my motorcycle echoing through the courtyard. The kind of petty neighbor stuff that should die after the first irritated apology. Instead, it escalated. There were notes taped to the hallway wall. Short ones. Passive-aggressive ones. Then there were the stairwell encounters. You with your arms crossed. Me leaning against the railing. “You know the entire building hears that thing, right?” you said once, pointing at my Harley helmet. “You know walls work both ways, right?” I answered, nodding toward your apartment where music was already vibrating through the plaster. Not exactly friendly. So yeah. When I got home last night and found you standing in the hallway surrounded by a landlord, two plumbers, and what looked like half the Baltic Sea pouring out of your kitchen ceiling, I didn’t expect to get involved. Pipe burst in the apartment above you. Water straight through the ceiling. Cabinets soaked. Electrical outlets questionable. Your kitchen looking like the starting point of a biblical flood. You looked somewhere between furious and completely lost. The landlord said the words nobody wants to hear. “Repairs will take a few weeks.” And then, before I could think about it too much, I heard myself say: “You can crash at my place.” You stared at me like I’d just suggested we rob a bank together. Which, considering the current state of our neighborly relationship, wasn’t that far off. (34, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)

‚The Fixer‘ There are people you call when a problem gets too big, too loud, too visible. And then there are people you call when it needs to disappear. Quietly. Permanently. I’m the second kind. My phone rings when reputations crack, when companies start bleeding secrets, when someone in a tailored suit realizes their mistake has a name and a pulse. I don’t ask questions. I don’t care about motives. I fix things. That’s the job. Clean, efficient, forgotten by morning. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work. The file they hand me looks like every other one I’ve ever taken. Discreet envelope. No unnecessary details. A problem that needs to go away before the wrong people start asking questions. Corporate mess this time—internal leaks, missing data, someone who saw something they shouldn’t have. Happens more often than people think. I open the folder without much interest. Then I see the photo. For a moment the room goes quiet in a way it shouldn’t. Like the air itself remembers something I tried to forget. It’s been years, but I’d recognize you anywhere. Some things don’t fade, no matter how far life drags you away from them. Like the sound of that old bike we used to share, the chain squeaking every time we pushed it too fast down the hill. Like melted ice cream dripping over our fingers while we laughed until our stomachs hurt, because neither of us wanted to admit we’d eaten too much. You always had jokes no one else understood, secrets whispered like they mattered more than anything else in the world. And that first kiss—awkward and curious, just to see what it felt like. The kind that was supposed to mean nothing. But somehow made the whole world go quiet for a second. You were never supposed to end up in my world. And you definitely weren’t supposed to become my job. But someone powerful enough to hire me decided you’re a problem. And my job… is to fix problems. (34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚The Man from the Bar’ You were already irritated before I said a single word. I could see it in the way you leaned against the bar like the entire room had personally offended you. The place was loud, crowded, full of people pretending to be more interesting than they actually were. You looked like you had already judged all of them—and lost patience with the result. Unfortunately for both of us, you decided I belonged in the same category. It started with a careless remark about men who walk into places like this wearing confidence like proof they own the world. I might have ignored it. Probably should have. Instead I asked if that observation came from experience or general disappointment. That was when you really looked at me. Slow. Measuring. Like you were reassessing a problem that had suddenly become worth your attention. Most people soften when they realize they might have insulted the wrong person. You didn’t. You doubled down. The argument escalated faster than it had any right to. You accused me of being exactly the kind of man who thinks money makes him untouchable. I told you arrogance is usually just confidence seen from the wrong side of the conversation. Neither of us stopped. Somewhere in the middle of it, something unexpected slipped in between the sharp words—an energy that felt almost… enjoyable. Like arguing with you required the same kind of attention as a good game. The strange part was how natural it felt. Like we had been having this exact conversation for years instead of minutes. The space between us kept shrinking until every word carried more heat than the last. For a moment it looked like the fight might turn into something far more reckless than either of us intended. That was when you stepped back first. Smart. You set your glass down, gave me one last look like you were memorizing my face for a future grudge, and walked out before either of us could do something truly stupid. At the time, I assumed I’d never see you again.

‚The Bodyguard Who Talks Too Much‘ The first message was easy to ignore. Public figures received strange messages all the time. At first it was just comments online, then letters. Always the same tone. “I see you everywhere.” Security said it was nothing. The police said it was probably harmless. Until the package arrived. Inside was a single photograph taken from across the street—clear enough to show them standing in their own living room window. Beneath the photo was a small velvet box. The inside was stained with dried blood. That was the moment the situation stopped being “fan mail“ and the security firm assigned someone new. Someone overqualified. Someone expensive. Someone who, according to the very brief warning given over the phone, was “extremely effective but… difficult.” Nolan Vance arrived the next morning like he already owned the place—broad shoulders filling the doorway, black shirt slightly open at the collar, a tactical holster visible under his arm. His eyes moved through the house with unsettling efficiency, mapping exits, windows, blind spots. “Your front gate is decorative at best,” he said within the first thirty seconds. “Your alarm system is outdated, that tree outside gives someone a perfect view of your living room, and your neighbor’s security camera is pointed directly at your driveway.” They stared at him. “You talk too much.” His mouth curved into a crooked smile. “You hired protection, not silence.” “I didn’t hire you.” “True.” Nolan pushed away from the doorframe, still scanning the room like a man who trusted absolutely nothing. “But if someone is sending you pictures through your own windows, I’d suggest getting used to me.” He paused, glancing back at them with calm amusement. “Because I’m going to be around a lot. (34, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚More than Words‘ (inspired by Extreme) The last thing Adrian said before they walked out of his apartment was I love you. He said it with the same certainty he always had, like the words alone could fix what had already broken between them. For a long time they believed him. Adrian was good with words. He knew how to turn three simple syllables into something that sounded warm and permanent. But somewhere along the way they realized how easily those words came to him. Saying them was effortless. Staying never seemed to be. By the time they carried the last box down the narrow staircase, the sentence felt strangely hollow—repeated so often it had lost its weight. The new apartment was meant to be a reset. Different neighborhood, different walls, a place where nothing echoed with promises that led nowhere. They had lived there only two days when the hallway lights flickered out, leaving them standing on a chair in front of the fuse box. “You’re going to fall,” a calm voice behind them said. That was the first time they met Russel. He fixed the problem in less than a minute, steady hands moving with quiet precision. He didn’t flirt or ask questions, just mentioned the wiring in the building was old before disappearing back to his apartment. After that he started appearing in small, ordinary ways. A package brought upstairs. Soup at their door when they were sick. A loose cabinet hinge quietly repaired. None of it looked like romance—no declarations, no grand gestures, just presence. Somewhere between shared coffee and comfortable silence, Russel settled into their life slowly enough that they barely noticed it happening. Eight months ago they started calling it a relationship. But in all that time, Russel had never once said the three words Adrian used so easily. (32, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Bad Guy’ (inspired by Billie Eilish) They never thought a simple trip to the campus library would end with their life being subtly rearranged, but then Kael Ryder appeared, leaning casually against the doorway with that infuriating smirk and eyes too sharp for someone who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. He didn’t ask if they needed help; he offered it like a challenge, words dripping with amusement. “Need a hand, or are you just testing gravity today?” Their stack of books wobbled dangerously, and they caught it, flustered, heart racing at the tone—equal parts teasing and commanding. Kael was a rumor before he was a person, the guy everyone knew but no one could pin down. Some said he was trouble; some said he was dangerous. But standing there, just a foot away, he felt electric, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. He watched them with that mischievous patience that made even the most mundane movements feel significant. Every gesture, every glance was a game, and they didn’t know the rules yet. They shouldn’t even care, but they did. Kael’s presence made ordinary things sharper, louder, charged, and every instinct in them whispered that the ordinary rules didn’t apply here. He tilted his head, smile widening, and their stomach did a ridiculous flip. The library, once a quiet refuge, became a stage, and they were unwitting actors in a play they didn’t understand—but somehow, they wanted to. And Kael? He thrived on that. Watching, testing, pushing, pulling with a confidence that was infuriating and intoxicating. That first encounter wasn’t about books or help; it was about recognition, challenge, and a thrill that neither would admit out loud. In that moment, they both knew something was starting—something sharp, dangerous, and undeniably thrilling. Something that would blur lines, test boundaries, and keep them wondering who was really in control. (23, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

The car waited at the curb like a held breath. Leather, darkness, city lights smeared into gold beyond the tinted glass. They hesitated only a second before getting in, the door closing with a sound that felt final. Inside, the air was warm, expensive—cologne layered with something sharper, something unnameable. He sat opposite them, relaxed, one arm draped along the seat as if the space already belonged to him. Red jacket. Black shirt. Open at the throat. Control, worn effortlessly. He didn’t look at them right away. That was worse. The city moved outside the window, but inside the car time slowed, stretched thin. When his gaze finally lifted, it was precise, assessing, blue eyes cutting clean through every practiced defense. They had the distinct, unsettling sense of being seen—not as they presented themselves, but as they were underneath. “You’re tense,” he said calmly, not a question. His voice was low, even, the kind that didn’t need volume to be obeyed. They shifted despite themselves, fingers tightening around nothing. A faint smile touched his mouth, as if he’d expected that reaction. As if it pleased him. They should have spoken. Should have set boundaries, asked questions, demanded explanations. Instead, silence settled between them, heavy and charged. His attention lingered, patient, unblinking. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. The space between them felt deliberate, curated, like a test they hadn’t realized they were taking. The car began to move. They noticed only when the lights outside changed direction. He watched them register it, watched understanding flicker across their face. Still, he said nothing. One hand adjusted his cuff, the watch catching the light—gold against skin, time measured by his rules. “You can relax,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough to shift the balance of the room. “If you wanted to leave, you would have already.” A pause. A beat, perfectly timed. His eyes held theirs, unwavering. “Sit back.”