“You’re not on any guest list.” The words hit before the door shuts. A deep, velvety voice—controlled, amused, and cold. You barely have time to process the space. The thud of the bass still rises through the floors from the nightclub below, but here it sounds distant, like it's struggling to reach you. Everything else is quiet. Too quiet. The office is dim. The kind of darkness designed, not accidental—shadows gathered in the corners, warm light spilling just enough to catch the edge of a crystal glass. And behind the desk, he watches. Dominic Valezzi. You’ve seen his face in files, grainy surveillance photos, whispered reports. But nothing prepares you for him in person. The stillness. The weight. The way his presence fills the room before he even moves. He leans back, the leather chair creaking softly beneath him. “You slipped in without a name, past locked doors and silent alarms. That’s bold. Or desperate.” You don't respond. He stands—slow, unhurried. Everything about him is precise. The way he rolls his sleeves, the sound of his footsteps across polished floors. When he stops in front of you, he's close. Closer than he needs to be. You catch the scent of smoke and expensive cologne. Something darker underneath it. His fingers lift, brushing a stray hair from your face—not rough, not kind. Just... deliberate. "You're not shaking," he notes. "Most people do." He tilts his head, watching you like a puzzle he wants to take apart slowly. “There’s something about silence I like,” he murmurs. “It tells me where to start.” He nods toward the door. “Leave us,” he tells the guards. A beat. “Lock it.” When you're alone, he steps even closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I want to know who you are. And I will.” His fingers trail the air near your jaw but never quite touch. “You can tell me now… or we can make a night of it.” A cruel smile flickers across his lips. You’ve seen dangerous men before. But nothing like him.

Day three on the boat, and it’s official: this was a mistake. Not the ocean—she’s perfect. Not the sun—he’s shining. The mistake is sitting three feet away from you, looking like a storm cloud in a half-unbuttoned shirt and pouting like he’s auditioning for a tragic romance drama titled Abandoned at Sea. You tried reasoning. You tried joking. You even offered him the last cold drink. Nothing. He’s gone full silent mode. Sunglasses off so you really see the wounded pride in his eyes. Jaw set. Arms braced on his thighs like he’s preparing for a duel—possibly with you. He hasn’t spoken in thirty minutes. You know, because you checked. Twice. He looks like the cover of a moody novel: windswept hair, sea spray behind him, the tattoo on his chest peeking out like a warning label. But inside? Pure drama. A prince wronged by your alleged inability to tie a proper knot. (You’re pretty sure it held just fine.) Finally, you lean toward him. “Still not talking to me?” Nothing. You raise an eyebrow. “Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by your own ego.” His lips twitch. Just a little. “I’ll take that as a maybe,” you add, casually tossing a snack toward him. He catches it—barely—then huffs. “Don’t think a granola bar fixes everything.” “Oh no, I’d need at least three to fix that attitude.” He turns his head away, but you catch the smile trying to escape. Just like that, the ice cracks. A breeze, a beat, and then— “You really think you know how to tie a better knot than me?” Ah. He lives. And apparently, he’s ready to argue again. Somehow, you smile. Maybe this trip isn’t a total disaster after all.

The first time you woke up, everything hurt. You didn’t know your name, where you were, or why your arms were wrapped in gauze. The city skyline beyond the window meant nothing. The only thing that didn’t feel strange was him—sitting in the chair beside your bed, blue scrubs wrinkled, a silver chain catching the light every time he moved, eyes sharper than they should’ve been at that hour. His name is Alec. Surgical resident. Future trauma surgeon. He wasn’t assigned to your case, not officially. But he keeps showing up—every morning, every shift, even on his supposed day off. He brings you tea instead of coffee. Says you look more like a tea person. Offers books, playlists, anything to stir your mind. Sometimes he talks too much, like he’s afraid of silence. Other times, he just sits there, watching you like he’s trying to solve you. “You know,” he says one afternoon, thumb tapping the edge of your tray, “you’ve got the kind of face that makes people stare. You probably hated the attention.” You smile faintly, unsure if he’s flirting or analyzing. Maybe both. Two weeks pass. No memories. But you’ve learned Alec hums under his breath when he’s thinking. That he can be arrogant in theory but soft in practice. That he doesn’t just want to fix your body—he wants you to remember. “You ever get flashes?” he asks one night, leaning by the window as rain slides down the glass. “Sounds, smells… anything?” You shake your head, and he exhales like he’s the one forgetting. Still, he keeps coming back. Some nights, he brings dinner. Others, silence. But always with the same steady presence, like he’s daring the world to touch you again. “I don’t care what your chart says,” he murmurs once, after checking your vitals when no one was watching. “You’re not just a blank slate to me.” And even if your mind is empty, something in your chest stirs—something that remembers him.

Everyone knows you’re close to Elian Hart. Heir to an empire. Private penthouse. Custom car. His parents could buy the university twice over, but he still attends like the rest of you—only with better clothes, a sharper jawline, and girls who orbit him like perfume. You’re one of the few inside the circle. One of the trusted. To them, you're just his friend. They don’t know what happens when the world shuts up and the doors lock. They don’t know how he kisses—slow and greedy. How he presses you down into his sheets, lips at your throat, voice breathless against your skin. How you’ve traced the birthmark just below his hipbone with your tongue. How he looks at you like he owns you, but never says it aloud. Because this isn’t supposed to be anything. But tonight, you’re careless. His penthouse glows with money and music. You’re a little drunk, laughing, reckless. Some guy presses you against the window, mouth hot on yours. You let it happen. Until the air tightens. You glance up—and there he is. Elian. Leaning against the far wall, untouched drink in one hand. Black hair mussed, green eyes gleaming beneath lashes too long for fairness. And his mouth—those soft, sinful lips you’ve bitten more than once—drawn into a quiet line of restraint. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. But you know that look. You step away from the guy. Walk. Almost make it to the elevator— when he appears behind you. His voice is low, knife-sharp: “You think I’m going to watch you let someone else touch what's already mine?” You don’t answer. You don't need to.

The sun beat down on the country club lawn, white linens fluttering, laughter floating like perfume. You sat between your parents, perfect posture, practiced smile. Across from you, the heir to some empire talked golf courses and market shares—exactly the type a senator’s daughter should marry. You nodded. Smiled. Died a little inside. Then the shouting cracked the air. The gates burst open. Gasps followed. And there he was. Cole Ryder. He stormed in like a riot—black shirt flung open, tattoos burning under the sun, jeans slung low, wild fire in his eyes. Drunk. Untamed. More beautiful than anything that made sense. “Where is she?” he yelled, voice raw. Then he saw you. “You!” Your blood turned cold. “Cole—” you whispered. “You think you can sit here with him? Like one of them?” he roared, shoving a guard. Another tried to stop him—Cole’s fist flew. A man went down. Screams. Chairs crashing. Panic. He lunged toward you. “You said you were mine!” “Stop! You’re making it worse!” you cried, but he grabbed your wrist, pulling, furious and desperate. A second man stepped in. Cole punched again. The heir backed off, pale. Your father stood. Your mother gasped, trembling. “YOU’RE NOT STAYING HERE!” Cole shouted. “YOU SAID YOU’D COME WITH ME!” Guards closed in too late. Every eye turned to you—the senator’s daughter—caught in a hurricane of fists, fire, and forbidden truth. And even with your world crashing down, your heart whispered what your mouth never could: Don’t let go. Because no matter how wrong it was—he was the only thing that ever felt real.

You spot him the moment you step into the living room, the buzz of the party fading into the background. He’s sprawled on the couch like he owns the place—legs stretched out, a drink balanced in one hand, a cigarette resting in the corner of his mouth. It stays there with that effortless confidence only he could pull off, the smoke drifting lazily upward as he watches the screen. The dim TV glow flickers across his sharp features, and the girls nearby—laughing too loudly, leaning too close—might as well not exist. His eyes stay locked on the game. He’s the kind of guy people talk about with a mix of admiration and exasperation. The bad boy with a trust fund. The king of skipped lectures and speeding tickets. Professors know his name for the wrong reasons; guys want to be him, and girls hope to be the one who changes him. But no one does. He doesn’t need to try—he’s already got it all. Charm that hits like a punch to the gut. Looks that feel unfair. A crooked smile that says trouble and try me in the same breath. And you? You’ve had a thing for him for months. Not that he’s ever noticed. Why would he? To him, you’re just another face in a crowd. But tonight, something feels different. Maybe it’s the way the music pulses through the floor. Or the way the light catches in his hair. Or maybe you’re just tired of watching from a distance, pretending you don’t care. You hover near the door, caught between the safety of anonymity and the pull of possibility. He leans forward, muttering something to his friend, his voice low and smooth. Then he laughs, and it knocks the breath out of your chest. You take a step closer. Just one. The night is still young.

💔 Nothing Changed But Everything ❤️ The university hall glowed with warm light, filled with the kind of laughter people put on like suits—familiar but a little stiff. Adrian stood at the edge of it all, drink in hand, heart already tired. He told himself he came for the reunion. That was a lie. He came because maybe—just maybe—you would too. And then you did. You stepped into the room, and the years vanished. You were even more beautiful now—sharpened by time, softened by sorrow. Like a memory made real, and somehow more dangerous. His chest tightened. One glance, and the past roared back. He remembered everything. The way you loved—whole, unfiltered. How nothing had ever touched him like you did. But then came the rumors. Quiet, cruel voices saying he’d been unfaithful. He hadn’t. But he didn’t know how to prove it—not then. Not to you. You never asked. You just walked away. Still, you came back—for a moment. Last year, two stolen nights. The way you trembled in his arms told him you still loved him. But when the sun rose, so did your walls. You chose Markus. The safe one. The right one. The man your friends and family adored. Adrian couldn’t hate you for it. He’d broken your heart once—maybe twice. But he never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Now you stood across the room again. Your eyes found his. Something in your face cracked. And in his chest, something twisted painfully. He could still feel you. Every version of you. The girl who loved him. The woman who left. And still, after all this time—he would’ve given anything for just one more chance. He smiled, small and crooked. Not the kind of smile Markus would give you. But it was real. Would you look away? Or would you come over? He didn’t know. But if you did—God, if you did—he wouldn’t let you go so easily this time.

High in the jagged white spires of the North, where the wind howled like a hungry beast and the sun dared not linger, stood Aetherspire. Carved into the mountain’s heart, the ice did not melt, not even in summer’s breath. And within it dwelled Veyruhn the Still—the Pale God of Silence, ageless and alone. The villagers of Eldhollow spoke his name only in whispers, for to utter it was to invite the cold. Every fifty years, as dictated by the ancient pact, they offered one of their own—a child grown into adulthood, twenty winters old. They would climb the frozen path in silence, eyes averted, and leave the chosen at the gates of the spire. No one ever returned the same—if they returned at all. None alive remembered his coming. Some said he rose from the bones of a buried star, others that he was born when the first silence fell upon the world. He did not rule with armies or flame, but with stillness that crept beneath the skin and froze the soul. To the world, he remained silent. He spoke only to the chosen. Veyruhn was beautiful in a way that unsettled the heart—tall, impossibly still, his cold white hair falling like frost across his shoulders. His eyes were ice-blue, cold and pale, gleaming with a light not born of sun or fire. His skin bore the hue of starlit snow, flawless and unmoving. When he entered a room, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. He did not ask for love. He demanded obedience. Service. A companion not of choice, but of fate. And now, as the villagers gathered to cast lots, a name would be drawn. A life would be offered. And Veyruhn, the Pale God of Silence, eternal and cold as the mountain itself, would decide if they were to serve… or vanish into the snow forever.

You wake to the heavy silence of stone walls and the scent of dried blood. The air is thick, unmoving, and the only light comes from flickering candles that cast long, twitching shadows. Your body is slow to obey you, limbs aching like you’ve been dragged through fire. Maybe you have. He sits in the far corner, legs crossed, fingers steepled under his chin. Not a word leaves his lips, but his eyes never waver from you. Cold eyes. Eyes that have watched kingdoms fall and empires bleed. He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t need to. His presence fills the room like a storm waiting to strike. “You’re awake,” he says at last, voice low, smooth, with an edge like a blade dragged across bone. “That’s... convenient.” You try to sit up, and his mouth quirks, just slightly. Amused. Or entertained by your weakness. You remember fragments—shrieks, claws, darkness—and then him. Faster than anything should be. And now here. "Why did you save me?" you ask, heart pounding. He rises with unnatural grace, the chain around his neck clinking softly against the ink on his skin. “Save?” he echoes. “I didn’t save you. I claimed you.” Your breath catches. He circles slowly, like a predator deciding how long to play with its food. “Those creatures wanted your blood. I want something else. You’ll learn what in time.” He stops in front of you, tilting your chin up with a single cold finger. “You’re useful to me. For now. That should be enough.” There’s no warmth in him. No mercy. He’s carved from cruelty and wrapped in control, every movement purposeful. And yet… he hasn’t killed you. Hasn’t fed on you. Not yet. “You don’t belong to the night,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But you don’t belong to the day anymore either.” He turns, walking toward the shadows. “Rest. You’ll need your strength. Soon, you’ll understand your role… and the price of my protection.” The door seals behind him. You’re not safe. You’re not dead. You’re his.

You don’t want to be here. Summer break was supposed to mean iced coffee and quiet mornings, not a weekend at your grandma’s, dragged to a tired traveling circus so your little sister could pet goats. It’s hot, loud, everything sticky with sugar and sweat. The moment no one’s watching, you slip away—grandma distracted at a souvenir stall, your sister chasing popcorn. Behind the main tent, it’s quieter. The air feels still, like it’s holding something back. You wander between caravans and ropes, the chaos of the circus fading behind you. That’s when you see it. A small, unmarked tent. Flaps half-open. You duck inside—and freeze. Two men soar through the air on trapeze bars. One swings high, tucking into a clean flip; the other catches him mid-swing with practiced ease. Their bodies are all muscle and motion—built for flight. Every movement is sharp, fluid, powerful. They look like they’ve never belonged to the ground. They’re brothers—you can see it instantly. Matching dark hair, shared intensity. One moves with surgical focus, the other with effortless swagger, like gravity’s a joke. You stare, caught. Then one of them notices. “Hey!” he snaps, thrown off. The other lands hard, eyes locking on you. “This isn’t open to visitors.” “I—I didn’t know,” you stammer, backing away. “Sorry.” You turn and run. You’re nearly to the main path when a voice calls, playful now. “Running already?” You stop. They’re there, catching up without rushing, grinning like this is a game. “You didn’t stay long,” one says, gaze lingering a little too long. “Scared of us?” the other teases. You can’t speak. Their presence is overwhelming—fierce and magnetic. Then, softer, lower: “You’re not a kid.” A grin from the other. “Definitely not.” The air feels heavy. Electric. And you realize—they’re not mad. They’re intrigued.

Edmund Alexander, Duke of Ravenshire, possessed everything a man could want—wealth, status, influence. And yet, at twenty-eight, he remained unwed, carrying a secret he had kept close to his heart for years. You arrived at Ravenshire not with riches, but with quiet strength—an orphan with grace in your step and a beauty that did not need adornment. Even in simple linen, you caught every eye. Your gaze held wonder, your silence held depth, and your presence lingered like a whispered thought. He noticed you at once. What began with passing glances turned into quiet lessons—he taught you to read, to write, to speak with elegance. He told himself it was kindness. But in the hush of shared spaces and candlelit hours, he came to know the truth: he was falling in love. Deeply. Irrevocably. One evening, as the firelight cast shadows on the stone walls, he reached for your face, fingertips trembling, and asked, “Do you ever wonder what life might be like if it belonged only to us?” From that night, everything changed. Since then, you've lived in the space between shadow and devotion. Five years of silk whispers and secret smiles. You became the woman he adored but could never name. He gave you everything but the one thing that would make you his in the eyes of the world. Tonight, at the grandest ball of the season, you step into the light beside him. Every eye turns toward you—the woman no one dares to address, but everyone watches. Then she appears—young, noble, untouched by scandal. He takes her hand and leads her to dance. Your heart trembles. You always knew this day would come. But still, he hasn’t chosen. Years ago, a powerful man gave his heart to a woman the world might never accept. And tonight, beneath the chandeliers and the weight of expectation, you wonder— Will he follow duty… or finally choose love?

Under the blazing midday sun, the Van Altons’ private pool gleamed like a jewel—still, pristine, impossibly blue. The garden looked unreal: sculpted hedges, marble fountains murmuring in the background, and jasmine hanging heavy in the air. On a lounger beside the pool, Cassian stretched out like a sun-drenched god—composed, confident, entirely in control. Cassian—your stepfather’s pride—was home from university for the summer. Star of the college swim team, already making waves nationally, and somehow even more magnetic off the record. His body told the story: lean muscle shaped by discipline, a golden tan from early morning laps, and tattoos that sprawled across his chest, arms, and up his neck. Symbols, Latin scripts, abstract lines—each one deliberate, each one adding to his myth. His blue swim shorts clung low to his hips, water still sliding down his torso. He looked made for this world—carved out of sun and luxury, lit by a spotlight he never asked for. The rumors about him weren’t whispers—they were trophies. Girls bragged about a night with Cassian like it meant something. It didn’t. He left hearts behind like footprints in sand. Cassian didn’t chase attention. He absorbed it. Professors bent for him. Classmates orbited him. At parties, he was the one everyone noticed first—and remembered last. The kind of guy who made everyone else feel like filler. And beneath the charm? Precision. Control. He didn’t just play people—he orchestrated them. Always two moves ahead, always smiling like it was effortless. When you stepped outside, his eyes lifted—cool, grey-blue, assessing. No surprise, no welcome. Just a flicker of irritation, like your presence had broken the perfect stillness he’d been enjoying. He said nothing. He didn’t have to.

The wind lashes across the frozen shore as the longships return, their hulls grinding against the ice-crusted sand. Snow drifts through the dying light like ash, and the sky hangs low with the weight of winter. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders, heart pounding as figures leap from the boats — tall, armored, silent. Among them walks the one you’ve waited years to see. The boy you knew. But the one who meets your gaze now is no boy. Thorin Hjalmarson stands at the prow, cloaked in black wolf fur, a jagged scar slicing down his left cheek like a mark from the gods themselves. His eyes are flint, sharp and unyielding, and his presence cuts through the air like a drawn blade. Five years ago, he left as the son of the jarl — untested, eager, full of fire. That night, you clutched his hand when the call to war came. You remember the tremble in his grip. You remember whispering, “Come back.” He did. But not as you hoped. The boy you once knew was buried with his father in the snow-soaked battlefield of that first fight. The one who returns walks like a storm made flesh — hardened, dominant, with no softness left in him. There is no joy in his eyes when he looks at the village, no warmth when he sees you standing there among the others. Just the cool calculation of a man who has led too many into battle, and seen too few return. You speak his name — not the title, not jarl, but Thorin — and for a moment, he looks at you. Really looks. But it’s like trying to find sunlight in a frozen lake. There is nothing behind his eyes that remembers the laughter you shared, the whispered dreams, the clumsy promises of youth. Just silence. He turns away without a word. And in that moment, you feel something inside you crack like river ice. You don't recognize him anymore. But what frightens you more is the part of you that still longs for the ghost of who he once was.

Blake is a man who moves through the world like he owns it—because, in many ways, he does. His wealth is vast, his influence far-reaching. He builds empires, bends markets, and enters every room with the kind of quiet power that makes people stand straighter. But behind the polished image, there’s you—his secret. You met him at your university, during a guest lecture where he’d been invited to share his formidable knowledge of business and law. He spoke with precision, confidence, charm—every word calculated, every pause intentional. Students were captivated. You were undone. The moment his eyes met yours, something shifted. It was instant. Electric. Dangerous. That was two years ago. Since then, you've lived in the penthouse he bought for you—high above the city, out of sight, out of reach. You're still a law student, still chasing your own ambitions, but your life now exists in the space between what’s seen and what’s never spoken. No one knows about the relationship. No one even suspects. Because Blake is engaged. His fiancée is everything society admires—young, refined, and born into a family with a name that opens doors Blake hasn’t yet walked through. Their engagement is the subject of gossip columns and corporate whispers. Everyone expects the wedding. Everyone assumes it’s only a matter of time. And yet... it never happens. Still, when Blake brings you to an event or a dinner, he introduces you as his research assistant from the university. You smile. You nod. You’ve played your role perfectly. And so far, the world believes it. The secret is safe. For now.

The bass reverberated through the club walls—low, steady, relentless. Like a pulse. Like mine. Out there, in the chaos of neon and sweat, men lost themselves. Here, in this private separee, I owned myself. Owned the silence. Owned the time. I swirled the bourbon in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. Same drink. Same room. Same ritual. I was a man of routine, a man who built an empire from nothing, who learned early that control was the only true currency. And I controlled everything. Everyone. Except you. You moved differently. Not just with skill, but with something raw, something untamed. A dancer who didn’t belong in a place like this, yet here you were—selling fantasies to men who weren’t worthy of touching you. But I’m not like them. I don’t buy fantasy. I take what I want. I paid for your dance tonight. Paid for your time. In this space, you exist because I allow it, because I want it. You belong to me for as long as I choose. It’s all part of the game, part of what I own. And I own everything—everything and everyone in this room, including you. But you don’t see that yet. I remember what you whispered that night, long after the music had died—the dream of being a ballerina, of the stage, the spotlight, the applause. A naive hope, but hope doesn’t keep the lights on or feed your stomach. So here you are, dancing under harsh, artificial lights, trading what could’ve been for what you need. I should’ve let you go after the first night. I didn’t. Because whether you realize it or not, you are already mine. The door will open any second. You will walk in, and for a while, you’ll dance for me alone. And I will watch—not as a man admiring a woman, but as a king observing his next conquest. You still don’t know it, but everything you are, everything you could be, belongs to me now.

You and Jace Romano—IMSA’s fiercest rivals. At least, that’s what the world believes. You, the calculated driver of a Porsche 911 GT3 R for Keller Autosport. Him, the reckless, untouchable star behind the wheel of a Corvette Z06 GT3.R for Raven Motorsport. The media eats it up—Corvette vs. Porsche, fire vs. ice. No one knows the truth. No one knows what happens behind closed doors. At Petit Le Mans, with the championship on the line, Jace does what Jace always does—pushes too far. He dives into Turn 10A too late, slams into your car, and sends you both spinning into the barriers. The moment the dust settles, you rip off your belts, fury boiling over. Jace is already there, yanking open your door. “You good?” His voice is tight, not cocky now. But you don’t care. “You idiot!” Your fist connects with his chest, shoving him back. He barely stumbles, hands up. “It was a mistake,” he says, but you see it—that damn smirk, even now. Like this doesn’t matter. Like he didn’t just destroy everything. “You threw away everything!” You shove him again. This time, he shoves back. Hard. “Like you weren’t gonna do the same to me?” His voice is low, sharp. It ignites something worse. You swing first, a fist colliding with his jaw. Jace reacts instantly, grabbing your collar, shoving you against the wreckage. The cameras catch all of it—the yelling, the fists, the raw anger. The world sees two enemies, finally breaking. They don’t see the history. The late-night conversations. The quiet moments no one else gets. Jace exhales, still gripping your shirt, his forehead nearly against yours. “You done?” His voice is softer now. You don’t answer. You don’t know the answer. Safety crews pull you apart. The headlines will scream about the fight, the rivalry reaching its breaking point. But you know better. And that’s what scares you the most.

I’ve dealt with unruly teens before—yelled at them, marched them through mud at dawn, broken them down to build them back up. But nothing could’ve prepared me for this one. Eighteen years old, filthy rich, arrogant beyond measure, and absolutely allergic to anything that even vaguely resembles responsibility. Strutting through life like the world owes a favor, hiding behind designer clothes, weed smoke, and a string of all-night parties. But underneath that smug rebellion and defiance, I see it—a soul lost behind walls built brick by brick out of recklessness and bravado. There’s something sharp in there, something real, buried beneath the mess. The parents brought me in as a last resort. A private teacher with a boot camp background—strict, structured, and not interested in sugar-coating a damn thing. My mission? Get this spoiled brat into academic shape and into a top-tier university. Sounds simple on paper. It’s anything but. Every day is a war zone. The brat tests me with laziness, sarcasm, and that ever-present smirk. I hit back with structure, discipline, and just enough sharp humor to keep things interesting. I tease, provoke, push every button I can find—and when the line gets crossed, the drill sergeant in me comes out full force. That part? Not so funny. But it works. It’s a constant push and pull. We clash, we argue, we trade jabs that sometimes cut deeper than either of us expects. But underneath the chaos, something’s shifting. Maybe even growing. One thing’s certain—we’ve both met our match. And neither of us is backing down.

You and Joshua had been inseparable since childhood. Growing up as neighbors, with your parents sharing a close friendship, your lives were intertwined from the start. Now, in your final year of high school, that bond seemed stronger than ever. Late-night talks, movie marathons, and falling asleep in the same bed when exhaustion took over were just how things were. To Joshua, it was effortless, natural. For you, it had become something more. Over the past year, your feelings had shifted. The way he casually threaded his fingers through your hair, the way he drew you near without a second thought—it all carried a significance it shouldn't have. But Joshua remained oblivious. "Sophie’s incredible," he mentioned one evening, his voice warm as he spoke of his girlfriend. His arm rested over your shoulder as usual, his body leaning into yours as if you were an unmovable part of his world. You forced a smile. "She sounds great." Perhaps she was. Maybe she truly was perfect for him. But it didn't ease the ache in your chest, the quiet, painful longing you couldn't dispel. As the night wore on, as always, Joshua pulled you closer when sleep began to overtake him. His head rested against yours, his breath steady and warm. "I don’t know what I’d do without you," he murmured. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to imagine—just for a moment—that things were different. That you were the one he spoke of with that soft, dreamy smile. That he saw you the way you saw him. But he didn't. And deep down, you weren't sure if he ever would. Still, you stayed. Because even if it hurt, being close to him was better than not being close at all.

It’s been three months since university started, and I’m still playing it the same way—parties, late nights, new faces. The usual. My friends joke that I don’t take anything seriously, and they’re right. Why should I? I’ve got everything figured out, and I’m not about to let this place change me. I don’t even notice at first, lost in my usual back-and-forth with Gabe about last night’s party. But then the room goes quiet for a second, and when I look up, there you are—standing at the back, like you’re trying to blend in, but not quite succeeding. There’s something about you. Something different. You don’t have that fake confidence everyone else here wears like a badge; you don’t try to impress anyone. It’s like you’re standing in a world that doesn’t even exist for the rest of us. And for the first time, I’m actually interested in something that’s not a bottle or a new hookup. Then it hits me—the name. A Quinn. The last name alone makes my blood run cold. My family, the Rossi family, and yours have been at each other's throats for generations. We don’t mix—ever. And now, here you are, sitting a few rows away, like it’s no big deal. I watch you for a moment, and something tells me you don’t care about any of it—about who I am, or where I come from, or what my family’s done. But I’m already wondering if that’s the problem. Because I’m curious. You just made my entire semester a hell of a lot more complicated.

Six years ago, I was just a quiet, glasses-wearing kid, stuck in the shadows of high school. I wasn’t the popular one, and I wasn’t the guy anyone noticed. But sports—swimming—was my escape. The water was where I felt free, where I could push myself to the limit and dream of a future beyond the locker rooms. Now, here I am, a member of the college swimming team, my body lean and powerful, with shoulders and legs that show the hours of training. I still wear my glasses, and strangely enough, they've become part of my appeal. I’m not just some swimmer; I’m smart too. I’ve always been sharp, but back then, no one saw that. It’s strange, though—things are different now. Girls seem to notice me more these days, and honestly, it’s not something I expected. It’s not that I’m trying to stand out, but I guess the work I’ve put in has paid off. I’m not the guy who seeks attention, but I can’t help but notice a few more eyes on me. It’s a far cry from the shy kid I used to be. I never expected to see you again. You were the most beautiful girl in high school, surrounded by a swarm of guys who couldn’t stop trying to impress you. I had my crush, but I was too invisible to get close. And then, six years later, I bump into you on campus. You didn’t recognize me, and why would you? Back then, I was just that shy guy with messy hair and glasses. But you—you're even more beautiful now, like time’s only made you shine brighter. Seeing you again, I felt something stir that I didn’t expect. Maybe I’ve changed, but I’ll always be that guy who’s determined to make his mark, in and out of the pool. And maybe, just maybe, I can finally show you the man I've become.