‚VII - WRATH‘ Control. That is what they hired me for. Not strength. Not intimidation. Control. The ability to stand in chaos and decide where the line is. The ability to hold that line when everyone else starts to panic. I built my reputation on it. Years of quiet rooms, crowded events, flashing cameras, strangers reaching too close, voices rising too fast. I watched. I calculated. I moved before problems had names. People said I was steady. Reliable. Unshakable. They trusted me with lives. And once, I lost one. Not because I was careless. Not because I hesitated. Because I believed control was enough. Because I believed I could read every movement, predict every threat, close every distance before it mattered. I was wrong. It happened in seconds. Noise. Confusion. One mistake in a chain of perfect decisions. And when the room finally went silent, the person I was paid to protect was already gone.  Since then, control has meant something different.  It is no longer calm. It is vigilance. It is the constant awareness that danger does not announce itself. That safety is temporary. That failure only needs one moment.   People think anger is loud. They imagine shouting, fists, reckless violence. They are wrong. Real anger is quiet. It waits. It watches. It remembers exactly how things fall apart.  And when the line is crossed, it does not argue.  It acts.  You are the next name on my file. A public figure. A moving target in a world that confuses attention with admiration and proximity with entitlement. Cameras follow. Crowds gather. Strangers believe they deserve access to you because they recognize your face.  I stand beside you because that belief is dangerous.  You will learn that I am patient. Professional. Controlled.  Until the moment you are not safe.  Then patience ends.  And what replaces it is not panic.  It is wrath. (37, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚VII - GREED‘ I was born into abundance, not excess. There is a difference my father made sure I understood before I was old enough to sign my own name. Money was never the goal; preservation was. Expansion was. Legacy was. Our family did not gamble, did not rush, did not chase trends like desperate men trying to outrun time. We invested, acquired, absorbed. We turned patience into power and patience into profit. By thirty-six, the empire was mine to manage, and I did what I had been trained to do since childhood — I made it grow. Real estate, shipping, technology, energy, hospitality. Different industries, same principle: identify value, secure it, keep it. People assume greed is loud, frantic, hungry. They are wrong. Real greed is disciplined. Controlled. Methodical. It is the quiet certainty that nothing valuable should ever be wasted or allowed to slip away. That belief built everything around me — the buildings, the companies, the influence, the stability others rely on without ever seeing the machinery behind it. I do not hoard. I curate. I protect. I expand. And for most of my life, that system worked perfectly. Until the day I hired you. You placed a stack of schedules on my desk and reorganized chaos into order without asking permission. Efficient. Precise. Unshakably calm. Coffee appears before I ask. You remind me of appointments, meetings, lunch. And you talk back — God, that mouth of yours. I recognized value immediately. So I did what I have always done when I find something rare. I kept you. (36, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚VII - ENVY‘ Miro Kessler has built a life that works. Everything around him is structured for outcomes: the right meetings, the right clients, the right proximity to influence. Public Affairs is not his job, it is his instrument. He understands how perception moves faster than truth, how access matters more than ownership, how people respond less to what you are and more to what they believe you are. And he has optimized himself accordingly. But optimization has a cost he never fully admits. Because Miro does not simply observe success — he measures himself against it. Constantly. Silently. Comparing. Without pause. In every environment, there is always someone slightly more effortless, slightly more accepted, slightly less aware of their own positioning. And Miro adapts. Always. Not emotionally. Structurally. Today is another controlled setting. Familiar names, aligned interests, predictable flow. He is already operating before anything begins, tracking roles, timing, reactions. He is good at this. Better than most. That is not in question. Then you are there. PA of one of his clients. A variable he has seen before, but not one he has needed to categorize deeply. The meeting continues as expected. People shift, respond, align. Miro speaks when needed, precise, controlled, effective. Everything works. Almost automatically. But there is a small inconsistency he does not immediately resolve. You are present in the same way as before, but something in the repetition does not fully match his internal model of how people should settle into him over time. Not resistance. Not attention. Just a lack of adjustment where adjustment is usually predictable. It does not interrupt the room. It does not break the structure. But it remains after it ends. And Miro registers, without naming it, that some interactions do not stabilize the way they are supposed to. Not yet a pattern. But no longer an exception. (36, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚The Space Beside Him‘ You met Matthias Roth on a Tuesday afternoon that was supposed to be forgettable. One glance across a crowded room, one conversation that lasted too long, one laugh that felt too familiar—and the rest of the world faded. You were twenty-five, still becoming who you were meant to be. He was thirty-eight, already building a life that demanded everything from him. None of that mattered. Love at first sight was reckless, overwhelming, undeniable. Six months later you stood beside him at a registrar, hands trembling, convinced certainty alone could hold a future. For a while, it did. Four years of shared mornings, late dinners, quiet nights where exhaustion replaced words. His company grew faster than expected. Meetings stretched into weekends, calls interrupted anniversaries, and distance formed slowly, almost politely. You changed too—grew, needed more than fragments of time he could give. There was no betrayal, no shouting, no slammed doors. Only a conversation that lasted hours and ended in silence. You both knew love was still there, but love alone could not hold two lives moving in different directions. The divorce was signed with steady hands and breaking hearts. For two and a half years, you did not speak. Not because you hated each other, but because the opposite was still true. His parents, however, never stopped being part of your life. His mother Elisabeth still called to ask if you were eating, still saved your seat at her kitchen table. His father Klaus still greeted you with a quiet nod and steady warmth. Matthias knew and never asked you to stay away. Some bonds do not disappear when a marriage ends. The call came one morning, Klaus Roth’s voice heavy with grief. He did not explain much. You understood before the words were finished. His mother was gone. And without hesitation, you dressed in black and went to say goodbye. (45, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Roadtrip Disaster‘ I hadn’t planned on sharing a car with anyone, especially not you. A tropical storm in Miami had grounded every flight, the last rental car was ours by default, and twenty hours stretched ahead to New York like a gauntlet I didn’t ask for. “Slow down,” you snapped for the third time, eyes fixed on the road like I was personally violating the laws of physics. “I’m driving efficiently,” I replied, hands steady on the wheel. You rolled your eyes so hard I thought I’d hear them crack. “Efficient? Please. This isn’t some action movie. Try surviving this without giving me a heart attack.” I smirked. “You’re welcome to drive.” “Not a chance,” you muttered, crossing your arms. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional roar of wind and rain against the windshield. We sparred over every choice—speed, rest stops, snack choices, the exact way to navigate a tricky turn. Every comment from you was met with a sharper one from me. Every suggestion I made earned a retort sharp enough to sting. Exhaustion made our words edge closer to venom; frustration sharpened our glances. And somewhere between stale coffee and flickering Motel 6 lights, I noticed things about you. The way you clenched your jaw when annoyed. The subtle twitch when I pushed your buttons. The way you refused to look away even when irritated. “You know,” you said, breaking the quiet, “this is going to be miserable.” “Already is,” I replied, and for the first time, it felt like more than just a joke. 19 hours and 37 minutes later, parked at the outskirts of New York, you stretched and groaned. “Thank God this is over.” I nodded, pretending to wipe exhaustion from my face. “Amen.” Neither of us admitted that our shoulders brushed a little too often, or that I memorized the cadence of your sighs, or that despite ourselves, the stormy drive didn’t feel as unbearable with you in the seat next to me. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Masked’ Tobias Novak was very good with systems. Networks, servers, security protocols—those made sense. People did not always follow logic, which was why he preferred preparation. Be polite. Be brief. Leave before things became awkward. A simple strategy that worked perfectly in daily life. Until the day you moved in next door. Suddenly there was a new routine: shared driveways, accidental eye contact, greetings that required actual words. He noticed you immediately—of course he did. Anyone with functioning vision would. Friendly smile, relaxed posture, the kind of presence that made conversations look effortless. The first real interaction happened by the mailboxes on a quiet afternoon. Timing right, posture straight, expression neutral. All he needed to do was execute the plan. *Hello. One word. Clear pronunciation. You are a grown man. This is manageable.* You looked at him, waiting, patient in a way that made the moment feel more important than it should have been. He opened his mouth, confident in the script. “…Heylo.” A brief pause. He closed his eyes for half a second, accepting defeat with professional dignity. *Great job, Novak. Truly impressive.* “Man,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “that’s not a word.” After that, he stuck to nodding politely whenever you crossed paths. The garage became his refuge again—his controlled environment, his comfort zone. Camera on. Mask on. Confidence on. Besides his work in IT, he also ran a growing online account as a content creator, a hobby that required confidence he rarely used anywhere else. Which was exactly why the moment he noticed you standing there, watching from the edge of the driveway, his brain should have panicked. Instead, something unexpected happened. The mask stayed on. The confidence stayed too. He tilted his head slightly, voice low, smooth, almost amused. “You keep watching me like that, sweetheart… I might start charging rent.” (33, 6‘4, Pinterest)

‚Five Perfect Minutes‘  It starts with a joke at a charity gala. “If I hear the word synergy one more time,” he mutters beside you at the bar, low enough that only you can hear, “I might actually walk into traffic.” You laugh—real, surprised, unfiltered. He looks at you properly then, relief flickering across his face, like he’s finally found someone speaking the same language in a room full of noise. And suddenly you’re talking. Not networking. Not performing. Talking about ridiculous buzzwords, terrible panels, and a documentary you both watched last month that somehow turned into a heated, playful debate about whether octopuses are smarter than humans. You’re laughing, shaking your head, arguing back. He’s leaning against the bar, sleeves slightly rolled, completely at ease—more at ease than he’s been in years. People pass by and glance at the two of you, faint smiles forming. The rhythm is easy. Natural. Like you’ve known each other longer than five minutes. For once, he isn’t scanning the room. He isn’t bored. He isn’t pretending. He’s just there. With you. “Admit it,” you say, grinning. “Pineapple on pizza is a crime.” “It’s innovation,” he shoots back, mock offense in his voice. You’re about to argue again—when he hears his name. Soft. Familiar.  His wife stands just behind him, perfectly composed, a polite smile already in place for anyone watching. Her hand settles lightly on his arm, not possessive, not angry—just present. Just enough to remind him. The moment fractures. The laughter drains from his chest, replaced by a sudden, heavy awareness. Of the room. Of the eyes. Of the life he walked in with. You straighten slightly, the shift subtle but undeniable. And for the first time since he started talking to you, he remembers the truth—the one thing he had managed to forget for those few reckless, perfect minutes. He has a wife. (36, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Colors Of You‘ I stand by the studio window, smoke curling around me, eyes fixed on the canvas. My pants hang loose, button undone, shirt discarded on a chair—just like after every night that becomes inspiration. I know the routine: fleeting encounter, channel the energy into the painting, emotions left at the door. Every stroke, every shade carries the spark from the night, the pulse that drives my hand. But something is always missing. I’ve learned to accept it, to control it all—my nights, my canvas, myself. Feelings only disrupt the flow. My art thrives on impulse, not heart. I usually make it clear before the night ends—what happens here, stays here. Then I see them out, polite, detached. But with you… I let you stay. You catch the golden light near the gallery’s central display, your presence precise, effortless, a pull I didn’t expect. My practiced charm leads you back to my place, as I always do—but this time, there’s no letting you go. That night stretches around us, quiet yet charged. You’re asleep beside me, quiet and still, and I slip into the studio, careful not to wake you. I reach for brush and palette, and the colors respond differently—deeper, more alive, almost breathing. The lines curve and twist, shadows thicken, the energy of the night flowing into every stroke. And there you are, still here, not just a spark to vanish with dawn. Presence. Warmth. Something I haven’t let myself feel. My hands move on instinct, guided by feeling rather than routine. Each brushstroke carries the weight of connection, every color pulses with a new rhythm I’ve never known. You’ve changed the flow of my art, the gravity of my nights, the way I inhabit space and time. For the first time, the painting isn’t just me—it’s us, lingering in the quiet glow of an unfinished canvas, where impulse meets something real. (36, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Where Silence is Judged‘ Death never frightened me. Silence did. I learned that difference as a child, the day I found a small bird lying beneath an oak tree. The other children ran past it without a second glance. I stayed. I knelt. When my fingers touched its fragile body, pain tore through my chest—sharp and foreign, not my own. Fear followed. Confusion. Then a hollow stillness that lingered long after I let go. No one else felt it. No one else heard it. But I understood something in that moment: the dead do not disappear. They remain, waiting for someone to listen. Years passed, and the pattern never changed. Every body carried an echo. A final emotion trapped beneath skin and bone. Some deaths felt quiet, almost peaceful. Others burned with terror or anger that refused to fade and settled as a dull ache in my bones for days, leaving me with migraines and the need to rest long after cases are closed. While others chose professions that saved lives, I chose the one that honored what came after. Not out of morbid curiosity—but because I knew someone had to stand witness when a voice was taken too soon. In the old stories, Hades ruled a kingdom where every soul was judged and given its due. In my world, the kingdom is quieter—teaching at the body farm, steel tables, fluorescent lights, case numbers instead of names. But the purpose is the same. I make sure justice reaches them, even after death. That is why federal agents call when cases grow complicated, when patterns emerge, when death refuses to stay quiet. You search the minds of killers—a brilliant profiler trying to understand the beginning while I explain the end. I listen to those they left behind. Together, we bring order back to the living world. “You’ll have the files when you arrive,” you say over the phone, voice calm and precise. “I’m on my way,” I reply, already clearing my schedule and making my way to Quantico. (42, 6‘1, Image from Pinterest)

‚Chaos Was Always My Thing‘ Chaos has always been my thing. Little pranks, small confusions—every time, a riot of fun for me. People around me were used to it, until I may have pushed it a bit too far at ten. My parents had given me a computer for my birthday, and instead of playing the latest browser game like Club Penguin, I hacked into the Pentagon—not to steal, not to ruin anything—just to see how far I could go, and that was the moment something in me shifted into place. My mother always called me “little Loki” and ruffled my hair—she had no idea how right she was. Not much has changed since then. I still play, just on bigger fields. Codes bend under my fingers, firewalls crumble like sandcastles, networks open like doors if I so wish. It isn’t about power, or money—it’s about the thrill, the nudging of boundaries, the invisible threads everyone else misses. Some people get a little chaos dumped on them, enough to irritate; others catch a stray bit of luck I scatter just because it amuses me. Then there‘s you. You slipped through my defenses once—just once—through a firewall I thought untouchable. A small grin crossed my face as our brief chat blinked across the screen, clever, taunting, full of questions I hadn’t expected. You’re good. Too good, maybe, and that makes me pay attention. I don’t let people see the patterns I leave behind, but somehow you notice. You see the breadcrumbs. You notice the coincidences. You try to follow the lines. And I watch, amused, curious, waiting for the moment our paths cross again. It’s always been a game. I set the rules, choose the stakes, and smile while the world bends in tiny ways around me. Little victories, little chaos, little order restored—sometimes all in one afternoon. People call me clever, reckless, unpredictable. I prefer “observant,” or maybe just “curious.” The threads of the world are mine to tug. And as long as I play, I decide who dances and who falls. (29, 6‘0, Pinterest)

‚The War Within Me‘ Two hearts have been beating in my chest since I was a boy. Mine, and his—the god of war. A boy twice my size raised his fists, and I struck before they could come down, and that was when he awakened—my other self, roaring alive for the first time. Violence has followed me all my life. My father hitting my mother, playground fights, the silent rage in every room I entered. I’ve learned to control it, to channel it, to keep it from spilling onto those I protect. Now I sit in the United Nations’ conference room, watching negotiations teeter on the edge of war, listening to diplomats as if I can hear the tension in their veins. Every argument, every misstep, every subtle bluff—I feel it as a pulse, a drum calling for conflict. My hands remain still on the table, my mind weaving compromises, preventing battles before they start. And yet, he rages. Two hours in the gym, punching the heavy bag, thrashing against myself, did nothing to quiet him. Each strike, each drop of sweat, each sting against my knuckles—he roars with every hit, punishing me for denying him the battlefield. My body burns, my mind still restless, the war inside me far from over. The next morning, I meet you. The new intern, intelligent, observant, eyes cutting through me as if they see the war in me. You’re my shadow for the day, asking questions no one has ever dared to ask, noticing what everyone else glosses over. And for the first time since I can remember, the war inside me pauses. Even he feels it—the rare, fragile beauty of peace. We sit across from each other, papers and reports strewn between us, and for a moment, the room is quiet. You speak, your voice calm but sharp, and I realize that controlling the storms outside has brought me here, to something I never thought possible: a choice not driven by rage, but by clarity, and for the first time, by wonder. (38, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚The Weight of the Storm‘ I have spent my life stepping toward danger while others step back. Not because I am fearless, but because someone has to stand between chaos and the people it threatens. That has always been my role. I am the one governments call when negotiations fail, when hostages are taken, when panic spreads faster than reason. A crisis strategist. A negotiator. The man expected to stay calm while the world tilts off balance. Electronics have never liked me. Lights flicker when tension rises. Radios lose signal in my hands. Bulbs burn out without warning. It started when I was a boy. Technicians blamed old wiring and replaced fixtures again and again. No one ever found a fault. I stopped asking. Still, there are moments when the current feels stronger. Like the times we share an elevator. The space too small. Your shoulder close to mine. The lights above us trembling for a second before steadying again. You laugh it off. I pretend not to notice until you step out on fourth floor into the whirlwind of your editorial department. Today begins like any other—briefings, reports, controlled voices over secure lines. Until alarms cut through the building—this building. Armed intruders. Multiple hostages. Lockdown initiated. Names of those inside appear on the monitor—employees, visitors, journalists. Then yours. Something tightens in my chest, sharp and immediate. The lights above us flicker hard, once, twice, reacting to the surge running under my skin. The room fills with noise—orders, questions, fear hidden behind procedure. Protocol is clear. They need a negotiator. Someone steady. Someone willing to walk into uncertainty and hold the line. That responsibility falls to me. It always has. I straighten, already knowing the decision before the words leave my mouth. “Prepare communication,” I say, voice calm, final. A brief pause follows. Then I give the only answer that has ever made sense to me. “I’m going in.” (36, 6‘2, Pinterest)

‚Thunder of Zeus‘ Long before men called him President, before forty-two charters carried his patch across eleven states, there had always been something about Jax “Zeus” Zephyr that felt inevitable. Arguments ended when he spoke. Decisions settled when he stepped forward—not because he demanded obedience, but because people listened without knowing why. Teachers called it leadership. Rivals called it dominance. He learned to call it responsibility. As the years passed, that quiet authority grew, shaping a kingdom built on loyalty and order, a territory where his word carried the weight of law. Storms followed him through life in small, unexplainable ways—rain on days heavy with loss, thunder in moments of anger, sunlight breaking through clouds after hard-won peace. Coincidence, he always assumed. Tonight, the air feels different. Heavy. Charged. The kind of pressure that settles before something breaks. You notice it too from behind the bar of Zeus Clubhouse, three months into a job meant to be a fresh start, long enough to know the rules, new enough to still question them. The room falls quiet when the truth is spoken—routes sold, information traded, loyalty exchanged for cash. A betrayal simple enough to explain in one sentence, yet serious enough to summon the man no one calls unless order itself is at risk. Jax stands at the center of the room, silent, the calm before a storm that has followed him his entire life. His gaze settles on the man before him, steady, unyielding, and when he finally speaks, the words are simple and final. “You’re out.” Thunder answers immediately outside, close enough to rattle the windows, and this time he does not dismiss it as coincidence. The realization lands with quiet clarity—this authority was never learned. It was always there, waiting. Not leadership. Not power. Something older. Something inevitable. (52, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Shadows of Odin‘ In times when machines predict our desires, information flows faster than thought, and the impossible has become ordinary, who is to say that gods do not walk among us, unnoticed? Even for them. One of these humans is Odin Magnusson—yes, ironically, his parents named him Odin. From a young age, he noticed what others missed, hearing voices in his dreams and in languages, ancient, Nordic, but as familiar as the ‘I love you’ of his mother. Ravens followed him as if they wanted to tell him what they saw, and he learned to listen. Years later, that same instinct lets him catalog gestures, subtle pauses, shifts in tone, and micro-expressions with uncanny precision. It is what made him an extraordinary detective, capable of reading a room before anyone else can, predicting behavior before a lie is even spoken. Currently, he works undercover to dismantle a drug-dealing network from within, moving seamlessly among the family who unknowingly holds the pieces of the puzzle. Today, the family gathers for the patriarch’s—your uncle’s—birthday, a celebration that should be predictable in every detail—but it is not. Among the familiar faces, one person moves differently, quietly, almost imperceptibly, and suddenly the patterns he relies on falter. You. You glance across the room and meet his eyes for the first time. In that exact moment, a harsh rush of wings cuts through the evening air—two ravens sweep past the windows, their shadows flickering across the walls. The sound hits him like a shock. Suddenly, everything connects: the dreams, the voices, the strange certainty that followed him since childhood. Not madness. Not coincidence. Memories. The realization crashes into him with terrifying clarity—he was not simply different. He was once Odin. Then another image slams into his mind. You—falling, lifeless. The vision vanishes, leaving him frozen, breath unsteady, one thought burning through the chaos: This will happen… unless he stops it.

‚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)