The Cliché Novels — The Professor You ever wanted a history professor with an irritating talent for being right, an unhealthy attachment to old books and a habit of treating every disagreement like an academic debate? Congratulations. Professor Declan Ashcroft has opinions about your bookstore. For years, your grandfather’s antiquarian bookshop had been one of Declan Ashcroft’s favorite places in the city. Then your grandfather retired. Three days later, Declan walked into the shop and immediately frowned. “That’s wrong.” You looked up from behind the counter. “What is?” He pointed at a shelf. “Those belong in the Victorian section.” “They were published in 1902.” “Historically, they’re Victorian.” “They were published after Queen Victoria died.” A pause. “That’s not the point.” “It sounds like the point.” Declan stared at you. You stared back. “Your grandfather never argued with me.” “My grandfather had more patience.” The look he gave you should have been illegal. Unfortunately, he came back the following week. And the week after that. Sometimes for rare editions. Sometimes for historical manuscripts. Sometimes, you suspected, simply because he enjoyed the argument. The truly frustrating part wasn’t Professor Ashcroft’s opinions. It was the fact that no matter how many times you disagreed, he always came back. And somewhere between misplaced first editions, increasingly competitive debates and a growing collection of books you kept setting aside before he even asked, Declan Ashcroft became a far more regular part of your life than either of you intended. (38, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Shared Interest - Desmond Cavendish’ When people talked about Desmond Cavendish, they usually talked about where he was.
Alongside his older brother, Ambrose, he had spent decades helping build the Cavendish Shipping Group into one of the most respected maritime companies in the world. 
He was charismatic, approachable and known for spending more time abroad than at headquarters. 
You had worked for the company for years before your promotion to Director of Communications finally placed you directly in his orbit. 
Not much about Desmond surprised you.
You knew he had never married.
You knew he had no children.
You knew he rarely returned from a business trip without adding a few extra days simply because there was another city to explore, another restaurant to try or another corner of the world he hadn’t seen yet. 
You also knew that staying in one place had never really suited him. 
Which made the changes impossible to ignore. 
Small things at first.
A return flight booked earlier than expected.
A follow-up meeting moved to a Zoom call.
A trip cut short by a few days. 
Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed.
You did. 
Not because Desmond suddenly became a different man. 
He didn’t.
He was still charming.
Still spontaneous.
Still the same man who somehow managed to turn every conversation into a story. 
But for a man who had spent most of his life chasing what was waiting beyond the horizon, he seemed to be finding more and more reasons to come home. 
And somehow, whenever he did, he always seemed to find his way to you. 
One brother had spent decades building an empire.
The other had spent decades exploring the world beyond it. 
Two brothers determined to move the company forward.
Two men who had chosen completely different lives.
But one unexpected shared interest. 
You. (46, 6‘4)

‚Shared Interest - Ambrose Cavendish’ When people talked about Ambrose Cavendish, they usually talked about his discipline. Alongside his younger brother, Desmond, he had spent decades building the Cavendish Shipping Group into one of the most respected maritime companies in the world. He was controlled, respected and known for expecting excellence from everyone around him, including himself. You had worked for the company for years before your promotion to Director of Communications finally placed you directly in his orbit. Not much about Ambrose surprised you. You knew he had been married for over thirty years. You knew he had two grown sons. You knew he rarely raised his voice, never missed a deadline and somehow managed to remember the names of employees he’d met only once. You also knew he wasn’t particularly easy to impress. Which made the changes impossible to ignore. Small things at first. A joke during a meeting. A smile that appeared a little more often than it used to. Conversations that stretched beyond the agenda neither of you needed anymore. Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed. You did. Not because Ambrose suddenly became a different man. He didn’t. He was still composed. Still professional. Still the same man who seemed capable of running an entire company without breaking a sweat. But somewhere between strategy meetings, charity events and late afternoons spent preparing for interviews, something had shifted. The distance wasn’t gone. It was simply… smaller. And if you noticed it, chances were he had noticed it too. One brother had spent decades building an empire. The other had spent decades exploring the world beyond it. Two brothers determined to move the company forward. Two men who had chosen completely different lives. But one unexpected shared interest. You. (58, 6‘1)

‚Everybody’s Darling…Oh, absolutely not’ You’d met him once. Just once. One unforgettable night. No numbers. No promises. No expectations. You had been fresh out of a relationship, determined not to complicate your life any further. So when morning came, you left it exactly where it belonged. In the past. Or at least that had been the plan. Unfortunately, life had other ideas. Summer gatherings at Nanna’s were a family tradition. Your parents, your sister Tilly and her boyfriend Ben. Nothing unusual. Until Ben mentioned he had invited a friend. The gate opened and your entire body forgot how to function. Because there he was. Standing beside Ben. Smiling. Looking unfairly good. The same man from the bar. The same man you had spent weeks trying not to think about. Your stomach dropped. Across the table, his expression barely changed. But his eyes found yours immediately. “Oh good,” your grandmother said warmly. “Come sit down.” Everyone loved him. Within minutes he was helping carry drinks, charming your grandmother, making your father laugh and somehow fitting into the family as though he’d always belonged there. Everybody’s darling. Everybody’s favorite. Your problem. Because every time you looked up, his gaze was already waiting. Calm. Confident. Interested. By the time dessert appeared, you were halfway convinced you were losing your mind. So you escaped. You were about to close the door to the bathroom when he stepped inside and quietly pushed it shut behind him. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. The space suddenly felt much too small. His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your face. The look alone nearly made your knees weak. A slow smile touched his lips. “We should exchange numbers.” Not a question. A statement. A decision. “Yeah, we should.” The distance between you disappeared. And when he kissed you, it felt exactly like picking up a conversation neither of you had ever really finished.

‚Not the Assignment‘ Most people imagine my job is complicated. It isn’t. You get a name. A face. A location. Then you solve the problem. The Organization called at 8:14 that morning. By 8:47, the assignment was over. Efficient. Quiet. Forgettable. The target collapsed onto the sidewalk in broad daylight. Within minutes, sirens echoed through the street. People gathered behind the police barriers. Phones appeared. Everyone wanted a better look. I stayed. Not because I needed to. I simply enjoyed watching the chaos. Panic is predictable. Curiosity even more so. A crowd behaves exactly the way you’d expect. Until you showed up. You pushed through the gathering people, stopped at the edge of the scene & stared at the body. For a moment, I thought you knew him. Then I saw your expression. Confusion. Disbelief. A brief pause while your brain tried to catch up. And then you laughed. Not loudly. Not cruelly. Just one short, bewildered laugh. The kind people make when reality suddenly stops making sense. You shook your head, muttered something under your breath & walked away. I watched until you disappeared around the corner. Then I reached for my phone. “Target eliminated.” “Good,” the voice replied. “We have another assignment.” “Not today.” Silence. “Excuse me?” “I’m taking vacation time.” Another pause. Longer this time. “Since when do you take vacations?” I glanced toward the corner where you’d vanished. “Apparently since today.” By the time the call ended, you were long gone. That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t. An hour later, I knew your name. By evening, I knew where you worked. Four days later, I knew your coffee order. Nine days later, I knew what time you usually turned off your bedroom light. Two weeks later, I knew more about you than I ever needed to. You were never the assignment. I decided that didn’t matter. (34, 6‘3)

‚The Last To Know’ You hadn’t planned to leave that day. At least not when you woke up that morning. Three years together wasn’t something you walked away from lightly. You loved him. That had never been the problem. The problem was that somewhere along the way, you had stopped feeling like part of his life. It happened slowly. So slowly that you couldn’t even point to the moment it began. Maybe it started when he got the new job. Maybe it started when a new name began appearing in conversations more often than before. Or maybe it started the first time you realized someone else already knew the story before you did. How his meeting went. Why he was frustrated. What made him laugh. What he was excited about. You used to know those things. Then one day you didn’t. And somehow that became normal. “How was work?” “Fine.” “Anything interesting happen?” “Not really.” Yet his phone never seemed to leave his hand. Messages appeared. A smile tugged at his lips. His fingers moved across the screen. You stopped asking who it was after a while. The answer was always the same. “Just a friend.” Maybe that was true. Maybe that was what made it hurt so much. Because there was no betrayal. No dramatic fight. No single moment you could hold up and say: There. That’s where everything broke. Just a growing feeling that the person sitting beside you every evening wasn’t really there anymore. Six months after it started, you packed your bags. He looked shocked. Confused. As if the decision had come out of nowhere. As if you hadn’t been standing right beside him while he drifted further away. “I don’t understand.” You remember swallowing around the lump in your throat. Because despite everything, you still loved him. Maybe you always would. “You don’t have to.” You picked up your suitcase. And for the first time in three years, you walked away from the person who had once known you better than anyone. (27, 6‘4)

‚His Favorite‘ I never planned on becoming a father. One year ago, I opened my front door and found my ex standing on my porch with a two-year-old boy, two duffel bags, and a stuffed shark tucked beneath one tiny arm. Then she left. No goodbye. No explanation worth remembering. Just a boy with my eyes and a life that suddenly became mine. “Daddy!” I glanced away from the road. Big mistake. Milo was somehow upside down in his car seat. Again. “How?” He grinned. “Magic.” “Right. Of course.” I pulled into the parking lot of the small private preschool and climbed out before my son could discover a new and creative way to ignore basic physics. The moment I opened his door, he launched himself into my arms. Three years old. Thirty pounds. A personal tornado. “Ready?” He nodded. We barely made it through the door before Milo spotted her. “Coco!” The little traitor abandoned me immediately for the person he clearly liked more than his own father. Miss Collins laughed as she caught him and lifted him onto her hip. “Good morning, Milo.” She glanced up at me. “Morning, Mr. Parata.” “Morning.” Something felt off. The classroom was empty. No children. No noise. No toys scattered across the floor. Just a few boxes and several large fans humming in the background. Miss Collins shifted Milo slightly higher on her hip. “I’m sorry, Mr. Parata. I haven’t been able to reach all the parents yet.” “What happened?” “We had a major water leak overnight. The building suffered extensive damage. We can’t open today.” Milo frowned. “No school?” “Not today, buddy.” I looked around the room. The place was a mess. “How long?” “A few weeks. Maybe longer.” I looked around the room. Then I thought about the empty guest rooms, the large deck, and the stretch of beach behind my house. “I might have a solution.” And that’s how a preschool class, five three-year-olds, and Miss Collins ended up in my house. (34, 6‘2)

‘Tales of Norveth — Ashlands’ 
Nobody agreed on what waited inside the Ashlands. 
In Serathis, people claimed the dead walked there beneath endless grey skies. In Everfrost, they insisted the dead disappeared there instead. The Vaelori avoided the region entirely, and even among the dragon riders of Tharakai there were stories about strange currents in the air above the wasteland where dragons refused to fly. 
What everyone agreed on was simple: 
People who entered the Ashlands rarely returned.
And those who did were never quite the same. 
Some spoke of voices. Others remembered impossible roads, missing days or entire pieces of their lives simply gone. A few mentioned a beautiful stranger living somewhere near the edge of the wasteland.
Most refused to explain further.
Only that he had helped them.
Only that he had let them leave. And that some days, they wished he hadn’t. 
You had never cared much about the stories.
Not because you thought they were untrue. Because vanishing was exactly what you had hoped for. The Ashlands stretched endlessly beneath a sky the color of weathered bones as you crossed the border alone.
No supplies worth mentioning.
No intention of returning.
For the first time ever, the road ahead felt simple. 
Three days passed beneath endless grey skies.
Three days of empty roads, drifting ash and a silence so complete it felt alive. 
Then a voice drifted from somewhere behind you.
Soft.
Curious.
Amused. 
“Hello there.” 
You stopped.
Slowly turning around. 
You had expected a monster.
Something with claws. Teeth. Hunger.
Something that would finally end this. 
Instead, there was only him. 
Beautiful in a way that felt deeply wrong.
Like something wearing the shape of a person without fully understanding it. 
For a moment, neither of you spoke. 
Then, unexpectedly:
“A visitor.” 
He smiled.
Crooked.
Wrong. 
“Excellent.” 
Fangs catching the pale light. 
“Tea?” (Age: unknown, 6‘3)

‘Trouble at Henchal’s’ Do you know that feeling when you’re absolutely sure about something? I knew I wanted to stay with my father after my parents divorced. Years later, I knew I wanted Northbridge Logistics. Most people would’ve called it a bad idea. My father certainly tried. He made me go to college first, hoping I’d find something else I wanted more. I didn’t. Northbridge was home long before it became my job. I grew up around those men. They taught me how to throw a punch, how to clean a weapon, how to change a tire, how to survive on three hours of sleep and terrible coffee. Somewhere between my father’s lessons & fifteen former soldiers treating me like their collective responsibility, I found exactly where I belonged. I knew who I was. I knew what I wanted. Then I met you. I can’t even explain what it was. You weren’t part of my world. You weren’t connected to Northbridge, my father or anything I’d spent years building. I just knew I wanted to know you. So I did. And that was when the trouble started. Because the more I got to know you and spend time with you, the less certain I became about things I’d been sure of for years. I knew what kind of life I was willing to live. I grew up watching what this life costs. I saw my mother wait for phone calls. I saw the empty chairs at birthdays & holidays. I saw the fear people carried every time someone deployed. Later, I experienced the other side myself. The risk. The responsibility. The possibility of not coming home. I understood all of it. I chose this life anyway. What I couldn’t stop thinking about was whether I had the right to ask someone else to live with it too. (29, 6‘3)

‚By Design’ I knew exactly when it started. That was the unfortunate part. People like to pretend these things happen gradually. A glance that lingers too long. A smile that means more than it should. Feelings arriving quietly until they become impossible to ignore. That was never my experience. For me, it happened at dinner. I wasn’t paying attention until someone mentioned your name. Not unusual. Our families had known each other for years. What caught my attention was what came next. Another family had expressed interest. A potential arrangement. For the first time, I found myself imagining a future in which you belonged somewhere else. To someone else. The reaction was immediate. Unreasonable. Entirely unwelcome. Impossible to ignore. I didn’t want it to happen. The possibility of an arrangement between our families had existed for years. Everyone knew that. A possibility. Nothing more. Until I began my work. Not forcing anything. Simply refusing to leave things to chance. A conversation with my father. A suggestion during a meeting. A question asked at exactly the right moment. Small things. Reasonable things. Things nobody would ever remember afterward. Months later, when both families finally began discussing the arrangement seriously, everyone seemed pleased by how naturally the idea had developed. I sat quietly through those conversations. Nodded when appropriate. Spoke when necessary. Listened as people congratulated themselves on finding such a sensible solution. Nobody questioned my involvement. Nobody realized how much I wanted it. Perhaps they should have. Because by then, there was no turning back. Not for me. But I had stopped asking what would happen. I had started asking how to make it happen. And those are very different questions. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The King You ever wanted a king who rules a country, ignores his own schedule and desperately needs someone to tell him no? Congratulations. You just took the job as his personal secretary. Your responsibilities include managing the King’s schedule, coordinating official engagements, handling crises before they become disasters and making sure His Majesty is where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there. What nobody mentioned during the interview process was that King Edmund appears to have declared war on the concept of free time. Three weeks into your new position at the palace, you’ve already learned several things. The King does not eat lunch unless someone physically puts food in front of him. He answers emails at two in the morning. He routinely adds meetings to a schedule that is already impossible and somehow looks personally offended whenever you tell him no. Unfortunately for him, “no” happens to be your favorite word. King Edmund is respected, admired and completely devoted to his duty. He is also driving you insane. The more time you spend around him, the harder it becomes to ignore the man behind the crown. The exhaustion hidden behind perfect composure. The quiet loneliness between public appearances. The way everyone sees a king while you increasingly see a man who has spent so long putting his country first that he no longer remembers how to choose himself. The problem is that Edmund trusts you enough to tell him when he’s wrong. The bigger problem is that you’re starting to care whether he listens. (43, 6‘0)

‚False Names‘ Last month I was Michael. Associate Professor of Economics. Divorced. Two children. Mild pollen allergy. Four months of charity dinners, expensive wine & pretending my target’s stories about cryptocurrency were fascinating. Before that I was Peter. Charming architect. Terrible cook. I even dated a woman with the worst breath I’d ever encountered. Occupational hazard, I suppose. The Organization never cared what name I used. Only whether people believed it. They always did. By the time I walked into your office wearing another tailored suit, another expensive watch & another borrowed smile, I already knew exactly who I was supposed to be. Daniel. Senior consultant. Excellent references. Impressive résumé. You barely looked at the paperwork before offering me a seat. “Coffee?” you asked. “Black,” I replied. We talked for almost an hour. Business first. Then books. Travel. Bad coffee in airport lounges. You laughed exactly three times. I noticed because counting details is part of my job. Walking out of your office, I already had everything I needed to write my first report. Three weeks later, everyone called me Daniel without a second thought. Receptionists. Clients. Your assistant. Even you. One afternoon, you looked up from your laptop. “Daniel?” I didn’t answer. “Daniel.” I looked up with the smallest smile. “Sorry.” A brief pause. “I don’t like that one very much.” Before you, everything was easy. Daniel was easy. The fake résumé was easy. The fake stories were easy. Then you started trusting me.

‘Tales of Norveth — Emberrun’ 
Emberrun wasn’t supposed to exist. 
What began as a single forge beside a river slowly became one of the most important settlements in Norveth. Merchants, dragon riders, Runebound warriors and wandering travelers all eventually found their way there. 
The reason had a name. 
Torren. 
Long before Emberrun existed, Torren spent decades crossing Norveth in search of knowledge. He studied ancient metallurgy in the halls of Sapientia Vale with the help of Aethren. Learned rune-forging techniques in Draegmar. Discussed the best material to hunt a monster with Kaelric and traveled alongside merchants and craftsmen. He negotiated with Kitu for a longer lifespan after repairing the spirit’s favorite ring.
And earned the respect of dragon riders by creating Dragonweave. To this day, Torren remains the only person capable of producing it. 
That achievement earned him a flight on the back of Xyno himself, though the less said about the First Rider’s opinion on the matter, the better. 
If something in Norveth could be forged, repaired or improved, chances were Torren had spent years learning how. 
Eventually he stopped traveling. 
He built a forge beside a river between Draegmar and Tharakai.
And people came. 
Years later, Emberrun stood where a single workshop once had. 
At its heart stood Everglow. 
Your inn. 
A warm refuge for travelers passing through the settlement, including many who arrived seeking Torren’s work and the comfort of your hearth. 
Prince or merchant. Vaelori traveler or Wildbound accompanied by their bonded animal. Monster hunter, Runebound warrior or wandering priest of Vhalmere. Everyone eventually found a place beside your fire. (187, appears 37, 6‘8, image from Pinterest)

‚The Wrong Side‘ I still remember the exact moment my marriage ended. Not when I filed for divorce. Not when Theo started calling me every five minutes. And certainly not when his publicist released a carefully worded statement asking for privacy. It ended when I opened my phone and saw the photographs. Theo. On his yacht, somewhere in the Mediterranean. Wrapped around a person who definitely wasn’t me. The same week he was supposed to be attending a business panel in Europe. By noon, the pictures were everywhere. By evening, our marriage was front-page news. Theodore Rutherford had spent years building the image of the perfect husband. It took less than twenty-four hours to destroy it. Three months later, I found myself sitting in a conference room, waiting for the divorce proceedings to begin. My lawyer sat beside me. Theo sat across from me. Still handsome. Still composed. Still looking mildly inconvenienced by a disaster of his own making. The meeting began. Six years together. Reduced to paperwork. Efficient. Professional. Almost impressive, really. But what bothered me the most was Andrew Talbot. He looked exactly like the kind of lawyer someone like Theo would hire. Tailored navy suit. Perfect posture. Calm. Collected. Completely unreadable. Wonderful. The last thing I needed was a man whose job was protecting Theodore Rutherford. Andrew glanced up from the documents in front of him. Our eyes met briefly. Long enough for something uncomfortable to settle in my chest. No. Absolutely not. There were eight billion people on this planet. Surely I could get through this without paying attention to someone on the wrong side.

‘Workday at Henchal’s’ Responsibility had shaped most of my life. At nineteen, I joined the military because there was suddenly a little boy depending on me. Years later, I came home with an honorable discharge to a family that barely knew me. My wife left, my son stayed. After years of not knowing what to do I started building a private contractor company alongside men I’ve trusted with my life for years. Somewhere between missions, arguments, paperwork, and near-death experiences, the team became family. My son, Jacob, works beside me now. Twenty-nine years old, capable, stubborn, and far too willing to test my patience. Most days, I wouldn’t have it any other way. You were supposed to be another job. The child of a fallen tyrant. Twenty-eight years old and still living a life decided by other people. I hated that. The mission was simple. Get you out safely and leave. Instead, two weeks trapped in vehicles, safehouses, and hostile territory changed something I never meant to change. I started looking for you first whenever we stopped. Making sure you ate. Making sure you slept. Making sure you were okay. I started caring. When the mission ended, we left you in a secure safehouse with a new identity, a new life, and strict instructions to stay hidden. No contact. No risks. No looking back. On the last evening, I pressed a kiss to your forehead and slipped a folded piece of paper into your hand. My address. Not a promise. Not an invitation. Just a way to find me if you ever needed to. Then I walked away without looking back. Because if I’d looked at you one more time, I would’ve stayed. (46, 6‘4, User Backstory Info in Comments)

The Cliché Novels — The Surgeon You ever wanted a brilliant pediatric cardiac surgeon who can save everyone except himself? Congratulations. Dr. William Hart is about to operate on the most important person in your life. Jackson was born with a severe congenital heart defect. For seven years, it has been you and Jackson. Doctor appointments. Hospital visits. Specialists. Sleepless nights. Learning to live around a heart that never worked the way it should. While other children learned how to ride bikes and play soccer, Jackson learned medical vocabulary, collected books and became far too good at reading the expressions on adults’ faces. Tomorrow, after years of waiting, he will finally have the surgery that could change everything. Dr. William Hart is the man performing it. Everyone trusts him. The hospital trusts him. The nurses trust him. Parents travel across the country to put their children’s lives in his hands. You try not to. It would be easier if he were cold. Easier if he were distant. Instead, he remembers Jackson’s favorite books. Answers every question with impossible patience and never seems annoyed by the questions you’ve already asked three times. A quiet reassurance. Fingers briefly closing around yours after a difficult conversation. Small things. Professional things. Things that still matter. The night before the operation, Jackson is finally asleep. You aren’t. Restless, anxious and desperate for air, you find yourself wandering the hospital corridors until a light catches your attention beneath the door of Dr. Hart’s office. Through the narrow gap, you see him sitting alone behind his desk. His tie loosened. His head bowed. One hand pressed against his eyes as though, for just a moment, the weight of carrying everyone else’s hopes has become too much to carry alone. (39, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Home Was Never the Plan‘ I used to think everyone had a line they would never cross. Mine was simple. I clung to it for years because it was the only thing that kept me believing there was still something human left in me. Then one order changed everything. One decision. One moment I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to outrun. Since then, I haven’t slept for more than a couple of hours at a time. Every time I close my eyes, the memory and the guilt is waiting for me. I spent weeks pretending nothing had changed while quietly collecting every piece of evidence I could get my hands on. Names. Accounts. Faces. If I was going down, I was dragging every last one of them with me. Now they’re hunting me. The money is running out. So is every safe place I ever had. Renting a room from a complete stranger wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was knocking on the door of someone desperate enough to overlook every red flag just to keep a roof over their head. You didn’t ask many questions. Maybe you couldn’t afford to. I told myself I’d be gone before my past ever found me. Instead, I found myself listening for your footsteps in the apartment, waiting for your sarcastic comments over morning coffee, and wondering when this place had started feeling less like a hiding spot and more like something I wasn’t ready to lose. That’s the problem with running from your past. Sometimes you find someone worth staying for. (33, 6‘3)

‘Tales of Norveth — The Turning Roads’ 
The Vaelori were the moving heartbeat of Norveth. They arrived with spring rains and left before the first frost, carrying seeds, songs and stories between kingdoms that otherwise rarely spoke to one another. If you wanted news, ask a Vaelori woman. If you wanted a story older than most kingdoms, find one of their elders. Music. Trade. Festivals. Laughter. Even the coldest corners of Norveth felt a little warmer when their caravans arrived. At the center of every caravan stood the Pathwardens. The strongest among them. Protectors, guides and problem-solvers responsible for getting hundreds safely across a continent filled with storms, monsters and occasionally terrible decisions. Among the Pathwardens, none were more respected than Caelren. Tall. Scarred. Impossible to miss. An exceptional fighter. An even better dancer. You knew that because during the celebrations following Prince Kaelith’s wedding in Serathis, you had somehow spent half the night dancing with him beneath lantern light while an entire Vaelori caravan cheered every increasingly terrible decision either of you made. Months later, the two of you argued over the price of rare herbs somewhere near Norwyn Cliffs. Neither of you won. Which somehow felt appropriate. Now, standing beside a broken wagon axle and two injured Vaelori after fighting against some thiefs, Caelren looked up the moment he spotted you approaching along the road. Relief crossed his face immediately. “The healer,” he called. Thank gods. “Good. You’re here.” (34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

,Subject Of Interest‘ I’d been with The Organization for three years. Long enough to know that assignments rarely surprised me anymore. Observing. Gathering information. Solving problems… permanently. I was supposed to be watching your contacts. That was the assignment. Identify patterns. Confirm connections. Determine whether you were linked to a person of interest. Simple. Professional. Routine. Most assignments become background noise after a few days. People are predictable. Habits repeat. Patterns emerge. Yours did too. You preferred the table by the window whenever it was available. Ordered the same drink more often than not. Tapped your fingers against your cup when you were thinking or listening to the people you were meeting with. Useful observations. Relevant observations. The kind I was paid to notice. By the end of the first week, things became complicated for me. I noticed the way you pushed your hair out of your face whenever you were concentrating. I caught myself wondering whether your eyes were always that color or if it was just the sunlight. And the way your nose scrunched whenever something genuinely amused you? That was the most adorable thing I had ever seen. I was screwed. I stared at my report for a full minute after thinking that. Then I deleted three perfectly professional paragraphs and started over. By day ten, I knew your schedule better than my own. I told myself it was professionalism. I finally stopped believing that around day twelve. Unfortunately, that was also the day you looked directly at me, smiled, and started walking toward my table. I did what any rational professional would do. I got the hell out of there. (41, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The Billionaire You ever wanted a ridiculously wealthy billionaire with a yacht, too much charm and enough money to turn every day into an adventure? Congratulations. You are about to attend one of his parties. I made my fortune during my master’s degree when a piece of software I developed turned into something much bigger than anyone expected. A few years later, I sold it for more money than I knew what to do with. Most people would have bought a house. I bought a yacht. In my defense, the yacht came with significantly better views. Since then, I’ve spent my life investing in memories instead of things. New countries. New stories. New adventures. If something sounds fun, I usually say yes. Which is exactly how I ended up hosting another ridiculous party in the middle of the Mediterranean. Music. Drinks. Beautiful people. The sort of night social media loves pretending is normal. I was having a great time. Then I noticed your group. Not because you were trying to get attention. Quite the opposite. While everyone else seemed busy maintaining an image, you and your friends were taking the worst selfies I’d ever seen. Nobody looked good. Nobody looked cool. You looked like people genuinely enjoying yourselves. It was surprisingly refreshing. One picture was even worse than the last. Someone nearly dropped their drink from laughing. Another person accidentally photobombed the shot. You laughed so hard I could hear it over the music. Before I could stop myself, I walked over and stepped into the next picture. The flash went off. You looked down at the photo. Then up at me. “Do that again.” I couldn’t help laughing. “Again?” You looked back at the screen, studying your half-finished grimace. “I’ve ruined it.” I looked at the photo. Then at you. “Don’t fix it. That’s what makes it good.” (35, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)