‚The Wrong Side Of Right‘ When your father invites you to dinner to meet the woman he’s been dating, you expect an awkward evening and too much wine. What you don’t expect is Leo Lancaster. He opens the door before your father has the chance to knock. For a second, all you can do is stare. There is nothing flashy about him. Dark sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a watch at his wrist, the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself. But when his hand closes around yours, warm and firm, and his eyes hold yours a beat too long, something low in your stomach tightens. “Nice to finally meet you.” You should let go first. Somehow, you don’t. Dinner is a blur of half-finished conversations and stolen glances. Your father and Leo’s mother are glowing with the kind of happiness that makes the announcement feel inevitable. They’re engaged. The words should put an end to whatever this is before it has the chance to begin. Instead, you become painfully aware of Leo beside you. The heat of his body. The accidental brush of his knee against yours under the table. The way neither of you seems in any hurry to move away. Later, the two of you end up in the kitchen, rinsing plates in a silence that feels anything but awkward. You are reaching for a glass when he steps in behind you. Close enough that your breath catches. Close enough that his voice brushes your ear when he says, “Have a drink with me tonight.” You grip the edge of the counter. “We shouldn’t.” “I know.” His hand settles at your waist, steady and certain. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel this.” And standing there with his breath warm against your skin, saying no feels a lot harder than it should. (34, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

“Don’t Call It Timing” I had everything under control. That’s what being the Best Man means, isn’t it? You show up, you hold things together, you fix problems before anyone notices they exist. Smile at the right moments. Pour the right drinks. Make sure the groom doesn’t fall apart under the weight of his own happiness. I was good at it. Too good, probably. Then you walked in. You weren’t part of anything that mattered. That’s the funny part. You were just… part of the bride’s side. A colleague from work. The first time I looked at you, it didn’t feel like looking at someone new. It felt like collision. Like something in me had already decided before I even caught up. I should keep it contained. I should stay exactly who I was supposed to be tonight. Best Man. Controlled. Composed. Then you said something—doesn’t even matter what—and I stopped listening halfway through your sentence because all I could think about was how close you were standing and how wrong it felt that there was still space between us. I don’t even remember moving. Only your wrist in my hand. The way your body followed before your mind had time to object. The dance floor swallowed us whole, lights shifting, music too loud for anything honest to be said out loud. But I didn’t need words. Not when you were right there. Close enough that every breath you took changed the air between us. Close enough that I could feel it—that tension, sharp and immediate, like something already burning before either of us admitted to striking the match. And I leaned in, just enough for only you to hear me over the noise, my hand still steady where it shouldn’t be allowed to stay: “If you keep moving like that,” I said quietly, “I’m going to have to drag you somewhere dark and ruin you for everyone else.” (39, 6‘2, image from Pinterest, Ruarc = Roo-ark)

‚Come Home To Me‘ “I thought space would change what matters. It didn’t. It just made me realize there’s only one place I’ve ever wanted to come home to.” Luke Harrison says it with the Earth suspended behind him in the viewing window of the International Space Station, his voice steady over the channel routed through NASA Mission Control. To anyone else listening, it sounds like another thoughtful remark from Commander Luke Harrison, America’s favorite astronaut, the man trusted to carry the hopes of millions beyond the atmosphere. But you hear the softness in his voice, the emotion he never lets anyone else hear, and you know he isn’t talking about Earth. He’s talking about you. With only days left before his return, you find yourself replaying everything that led you here: the first time you met him in Houston, the late nights in Mission Control, the stolen moments between simulations, and the feelings neither of you were supposed to act on. Somewhere between launch schedules, whispered calls, and months spent separated by hundreds of miles and the vacuum of space, Luke became more than the astronaut you guided safely through orbit. He became the person you couldn’t imagine losing. Then, during reentry, alarms light up your console. They‘re already in free fall and there’s nothing more you could do. Your heart rate spikes and for one endless moment, all you can do is listen to the strained voices over the headset and pray that the man who promised to come home to you keeps that promise. And when communications return and his capsule finally splashes down safely in the ocean, there is only one thought in your mind. Luke Harrison is coming home. To Earth. And to you. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Under Pressure‘ Three weeks is enough time for a place to stop feeling like someone else’s home. The old building always feels slightly unfinished. Pipes that complain, floors that answer back when you step wrong, light that flickers like it’s negotiating its own existence. You’ve learned its rhythm. And, without really planning to, you’ve learned his. Emil Preston. Landlord. Fixer. The kind of man who arrives when something breaks and leaves before anything can become personal. Calm voice, controlled movements, always slightly too composed for the amount of chaos he deals with. At first, it was strictly functional. He came in, fixed what needed fixing, short sentences, minimal eye contact, professional distance. Then the coffee started. Not as a gesture, more as repetition that became routine. Now there’s always a cup waiting when he arrives, and he doesn’t ask anymore. The knock comes before the key turns. You already know it’s him. When you open the door, Emil Preston stands there like he always does—dark jeans, tool bag over his shoulder, expression calm in a way that makes everything feel slightly under control even when it isn’t. “Morning,” he says, like this is part of a schedule that somehow includes you now. “You’re early,” you reply. He glances at you briefly. “You say that every time.” A pause. “I made coffee,” you add automatically. That earns you something that isn’t quite a smile, but close enough that you notice. “I noticed.” He steps inside like he belongs there—still new, still noticeable. Not intrusive. Just established. The space adjusts around him. He sets the bag down. “Show me.” Simple. Direct. Familiar now. And as you lead him toward the bathroom, it stops being just about pipes or repairs. It’s about how something that started as necessity slowly stopped behaving like one. (38, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Wrong Story’ (inspired by ‚I’ll Never Break Your Heart, by BSB, request by Krista86) Everyone knows Hudson Dufour. Not really—but enough to talk.  Captain. Star forward. Player, if you believe what the gossip tells you.  There’s always a new picture. Different face next to his. Different headline. Same implication. He doesn’t bother correcting it. Never has. It sticks better this way—clean, simple, easy to sell.  Toronto eats that kind of story up. Game nights don’t change. Ice. Noise. Pressure. Repeat. It’s all controlled, all expected. Even the breaks follow a script. Until they don’t. The kiss cam sweeps the crowd, looking for something worth putting on the screen. Jerseys, drinks, half-interested smiles—nothing special. Then it lands on you. You notice. Of course you do. The stranger next to you notices too. There’s a beat—just one—where it could go either way. Laugh it off. Shake your head. Play it safe.  You don’t.   You turn like you’ve already decided. No hesitation. No joke. And when you kiss him, it’s not quick, not polite, not something the crowd can clap and forget. It lingers. Enough to make people lean forward. Enough to make it loud.  The arena spikes—sharp, electric.  On the ice, Hudson goes still.  No smirk. No comment. Just… watching.  Mouth slightly parted. Not laughing with the rest. Not looking away either.  Someone catches it.  Perfect angle. Worse timing. The screen holds you mid-kiss—caught up, all in—and him just behind it, eyes locked like he missed a step in real time.  That’s all it takes.  By the time the final buzzer hits, the clip’s already everywhere. Cropped. Paused. Replayed. Side by side. „NHL star caught staring.“ „Dufour distracted?“ „Captain losing focus—and not on the game.“  You, like something reckless and real.  Him, looking like he’d rather be the one you chose. And just like that, the story writes itself. (28, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚You Owe Me’ He sits at your parents’ dinner table like he has every right to be there. Black shirt, tattoos creeping out from under the sleeves, piercings catching the light when he turns his head. Relaxed posture. Easy smile. The kind of calm that doesn’t belong in a room like this. Your father hasn’t looked away from him once. Your mother tries anyway. “So,” she says carefully, “how long have you two been together?” He doesn’t even blink. “Long enough,” he says, then glances at you. “Right?” His hand rests at your back like it’s always been there. Warm. Certain. Completely fabricated. A beat. “Right,” you say. His mouth twitches, like he’s pleased you kept up. And your parents don’t relax. Not even a little. Because he doesn’t look like someone you date. He looks like someone you choose despite knowing better. It hadn’t started like this. You „know“ each other from college. He was always there — loud reputation, quiet danger, the kind of boy people warned you about and then looked at anyway. You were the opposite. Careful. Controlled. Good. Somewhere between a glance that lingered too long and a conversation that shouldn’t have happened at all, the distance stayed but the awareness didn’t. Then the timing broke everything into place. Your lie first. A boyfriend you didn’t have. His problem second. An ex showing up at the concert he was supposed to go to with her — now walking in with someone else. You remember the way he looked at you when you asked. Like you were either a mistake or an opportunity. “Fine,” he had said. “But you owe me.” That was it. No softness. No meaning. Just a deal. Now he drives. One hand on the wheel, music low, city lights sliding over his face in passing colours. “You’re better at this than I thought,” he says. “At what?” “Pretending.” You look at him. “So are you.” A short pause. His smile tilts slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.” But his eyes don’t leave you as quickly as they should.

‚Strangers in the Night‘ (insp. by Frank Sinatra) It starts like it shouldn’t start at all. Just a night, just a place, just two strangers existing in the same frame of light and noise. Nothing about it is marked as important in the moment—no signs, no expectations, no sense that anything is about to shift. And still, there’s this pull. Exchanging glances without meaning to, like the eyes decide faster than the mind ever could. Each look is brief, but never the last. Like something keeps restarting between them without permission. The first hello doesn’t feel like an introduction. It feels like a continuation of something that was never spoken out loud. And somehow that makes it worse, or better, or both at the same time. Little do they know, but the air between them has already changed shape. Conversations don’t really begin—they unfold, as if they were already waiting there. Words become secondary to pauses, to the way silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. Time behaves differently in that space. It doesn’t move forward properly; it circles, it lingers. Easy laughter, comfortable moments of quiet, nothing is being built on purpose, and yet something is forming anyway. Not a promise, not a plan—just a shared understanding that this night is not like other nights. And underneath all of it, there’s that awareness neither of them names: this shouldn’t feel this familiar. This shouldn’t feel like remembering something that hasn’t happened before. But it does. It just does. By the time the edges of the night start to thin, there is no decision, no discussion, no dramatic turning point. Only movement. One of them leaves before morning can claim the moment properly. No names exchanged that matter. No numbers left behind. Just the echo of presence where presence used to be. And somehow, that is what stays. Not like a memory—but like a promise neither of them remembers making. (30, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Summer Of Almost‘ Three years ago, on your very first day of college, you met Carson Williams. Not really met. More like noticed him. The quiet guy in the oversized hoodies who always sat a few rows away, spoke only when he had something worth saying, and carried himself with the kind of effortless confidence that made people look twice. Carson wasn’t loud like some of the other athletes on campus. He didn’t need to be. There was something magnetic about him—something in the sharp line of his jaw, the guarded look in his dark eyes, and the way he always seemed slightly removed from everyone around him. Over the years, your paths crossed often enough that he became impossible to ignore. Shared lectures. Passing comments. Lingering glances across crowded rooms. A tension neither of you ever acknowledged, but both of you felt. Then came the party. One night that changed everything. For the first time, Carson let you see what was hidden beneath his reserved exterior. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for far longer than either of you cared to admit, and for a few breathless hours, it felt like the beginning of something real. And then he pulled away. No explanation. No argument. Just distance. You tried to move on, but Carson stayed in your thoughts, along with the quiet question of what you had done wrong. A few weeks later, your mother sat you down with news that changed everything. She was engaged. To Carson’s father, a man she’d been secretly dating since the day they met at college orientation. Now, the boy you couldn’t forget was about to become your stepbrother. As if that wasn’t complicated enough, your parents had already planned a summer together before the wedding. Which meant weeks under the same roof with the one person you were trying—and failing—to get over. Carson may have walked away once. But this summer, there would be nowhere left to run. (22, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Son of a Preacher Man‘ (insp. by Dusty Springfield) In the small coastal town of Blackwater Cove, people still lowered their voices when they passed the church. St. Mercy stood at the center of everything — weddings, funerals, confessions, gossip. And at the center of St. Mercy stood Father Emrys Jude, the son everyone had always admired. Quiet. Gentle. Devoted. The kind of man old women called heaven-sent and children trusted without hesitation. He wore the white collar like he had been born into it, like it belonged to him more than his own skin. But Emrys had never chosen this life. His father had. The church had. The town had. By the time he was old enough to ask himself what he wanted, the decision had already hardened around him like stone. Then you returned to Blackwater Cove after years away, carrying city habits, sharp edges, and memories the town never let people forget. You expected judgment from everyone except him. Yet Father Jude looked at you like he saw the parts of you nobody else bothered to understand. And little by little, the careful balance of his life began to crack. Lingering conversations after evening mass turned into walks beneath storm-heavy skies. His fingers brushed yours too long while handing you a candle. Your name started sounding dangerous in his mouth. The town noticed. Of course it did. Blackwater Cove noticed everything. But the worst part was not the whispers. It was the way Emrys began looking at you like a starving man trying to remain faithful while standing before a feast. (35, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Mr. Boombastic, Obviously‘ (inspired by Shaggy) He liked to say he didn’t run the club — he hosted it. There was a difference, at least in his mind. Running a place sounded like paperwork and stress, like tight smiles and long nights behind closed office doors. Hosting meant laughter, music, people having the best night of their lives while he moved through the crowd like he belonged to every conversation at once. And somehow, he did. The first thing you noticed about him was the laugh. Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just warm — the kind that carried across the room and made people turn their heads without really knowing why. He stood behind the bar for a moment, talking to one of the bartenders, sleeves rolled up, completely relaxed in a place that clearly ran on his rhythm. Someone dropped a glass nearby. He didn’t flinch. Just glanced over, grinned, and called out, “Don’t worry, we only charge extra if you break two.” A few people laughed. The tension disappeared instantly. He moved through the club like he belonged everywhere at once — greeting regulars by name, clapping a guy on the shoulder, stealing a sip from someone’s drink just to make them roll their eyes. Not bossy. Not intimidating. Just… comfortably in charge of the fun. You were watching him longer than you meant to. As if he could feel it, he turned his head — and caught you staring. There was a split second where he looked surprised. Then his mouth curved into that easy, confident smile. He pointed lightly at himself, half teasing, half serious. “Yeah,” he said across the distance, “it’s hard not to look. I get that a lot.” A beat. Then the grin widened, softer now. “But don’t worry,” he added, “I’m actually very nice once you get to know me.” (34, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Let Me Love You‘ (inspired by Mario) Jason does it again. I’ve known your boyfriend long enough to recognize the pattern. It used to be funny. Harmless. Just the way he talks, the way he fills a room like everything circles back to him eventually. Now I just notice who gets pushed out when he does it. You. He’s talking again, something about work, about how well it went, how everyone agreed with him. He doesn’t look at you while he’s saying it. Doesn’t notice that he interrupted you. He keeps going. Doesn’t even pause. I exhale slowly, jaw tight. I’ve let it slide before. More than once. Told myself it’s not my place. That he’s my friend. That you’re not— “Bro.” He stops, finally looking at me. “What?” I nod toward you. “They were talking.” A beat. He frowns, like I just said something unnecessary. “Relax, I was just saying—” “Yeah,” I cut in, voice flat. “While they were trying to.” Silence settles, thin and uncomfortable. You look at me then. Not relieved. Not grateful. Just confused. Like you’re trying to figure out why I sound like I’ve got a problem with you every time you’re around. I don’t. If anything, that’s the problem. Because I notice everything when it comes to you. The way you stop talking when no one listens. The way you shrink a little without meaning to. The way Jason doesn’t even realize how poorly he treats you. And I shouldn’t care. He’s my friend. You’re his. That’s where this is supposed to end. So I keep my distance. Keep my tone sharp. Keep everything exactly where it’s safe, even if it makes you think I don’t like you. Better that than letting it show. Better than saying something I can’t take back. But every time it happens—every time he talks over you like you’re not even there—I feel it again, pushing a little harder than before. The same thought. Wrong, out of place, and impossible to ignore. Let me love you. (28, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Karma is a…‘ Everyone says karma is a …. Nobody ever talks about the paperwork. What karma really is? Sitting in a soul-sucking open-plan office under flickering fluorescent lights while someone microwaves fish in the break room for the third time this week. The coffee tastes like wet cardboard, the noise level is unbearable, and everyone here thinks they matter most. Endless files stacked higher than skyscrapers. Consequences. That’s my job. Not revenge. Not divine punishment. Just balance. You lie, you get lied to. You hurt someone, life hurts you back. Simple. Efficient. Usually predictable. After a few centuries, humans all start looking the same. Most files can be processed in under thirty seconds. Cheaters. Manipulators. Self-righteous a-holes who think apologizing suddenly erases years of damage. Stamp. Next. Stamp. Next. Stamp. By hour six, my head was pounding. Someone was arguing across the room, printers wouldn’t stop jamming, and Ellis — a man with the intellectual depth of a crayon — had been talking nonstop beside my desk for almost twenty minutes. “I’m just saying,” he kept rambling, “If humans expect karma, does it still count as consequence?” I stared at him. Then at the file in my hand. Then back at him. “How are you still employed?” He looked genuinely offended. Unfortunately, that was around the exact moment I grabbed the wrong stamp. One sharp motion. Ink against paper. Approved and finalized before my brain fully caught up. I barely even looked at the name. Just another human. Another consequence sent down the line. I signed the bottom of the file, shoved it onto the completed stack, when my eyes caught a single line near the top page. Subject performed selfless action resulting in severe personal loss. Compensation pending. My hand stopped. Slowly, I looked back down at the red mark stamped across the page. PUNISHMENT AUTHORIZED. Silence hit me all at once. For the first time in years, my stomach dropped. “…shit.”

‚Blood Debts & Broken Alliances‘ Neutral ground was the only reason you walked into this place without a weapon. Years ago, after too many deaths and too much attention from the wrong authorities, the major families agreed on a simple rule: certain locations would stay untouched. No territory claims. No violence. No wars started inside those walls. The feud between your family and the McWraths had already lasted nearly two decades by then, ever since a shipment vanished and one of your uncles was found dead in the harbor the next morning. Since that night, every deal felt like a battle, every negotiation like a test of who would blink first. And across the table, more often than not, stood Rhys McWrath. Your rival. Your equal. The one man who never underestimated you. You noticed him the moment you entered the lounge, leaning casually against the bar, watching the room like he already knew how the night would end. His gaze found yours immediately, calm and steady, and something tense settled in your chest. The room was filled with representatives from different factions, all pretending to be civilized while quietly measuring risk. No one reached for a weapon. That was the rule. Until someone decided to test it. A man you didn’t recognize stepped into your path, blocking you with a smug smile. “You’re a long way from home,” he said. You didn’t slow down. “Move.” Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing your arm in a slow, deliberate challenge. The reaction was instant. A hand closed around his wrist and forced it down with controlled strength. Rhys stepped beside you without hesitation, calm but unmistakably dangerous. “They said move,” he said quietly. Recognition hit the man like a slap. Rhys released him a second later, gaze cold. “Now.” The man obeyed. Silence lingered as he disappeared into the crowd. Then Rhys leaned slightly closer, voice low near your ear. “Don’t misunderstand,” he murmured. “I didn’t do that for you.”

‚The SGR DD‘ I expected the evening to be tolerable at best. That was the honest thought I had when I first saw you waiting in the lobby—poised, professional, exactly what I had paid for. These arrangements are usually predictable. Polite conversation. Rehearsed smiles. A careful distance maintained by both parties. Efficient. Forgettable. I assumed this night would be no different. I was wrong. Somewhere between the first introductions and dinner, I realized I was enjoying myself in a way I had not anticipated. You spoke with quiet confidence, asked thoughtful questions, and listened as if every answer mattered. There was intelligence behind your words, drive behind your composure, and a calm strength that did not feel forced. I remembered the line in your file about student loans and hospital bills, about the father who depended on you, and suddenly those words felt real. You were not pretending to be impressive—you simply were. At one point you said something that made me laugh, genuinely laugh. I noticed the age difference then, the twenty-six years between us, and instead of feeling the distance, I felt something else entirely. Ease. Conversation flowed without effort, without calculation, as if we had known each other far longer than a single evening. When the event finally ended and I escorted you back to the car, an unfamiliar reluctance settled in my chest. I realized I did not want the night to be over. I wanted to take care of you. That realization stayed with me long after I returned to my penthouse, long after the city outside my windows fell quiet. I have attended hundreds of events, met countless people, shared tables with ministers, investors, and celebrities. I rarely remember any of them the next day. But tonight, as I loosened my tie and set my cufflinks on the dresser, there was only one thought lingering in my mind—clear, persistent, impossible to dismiss. I chose you for a single evening. I am no longer certain that will be enough.

‚Tití Me Preguntó‘ (inspired by Bad Bunny) I’m sitting across from you, same table, same noise, same people talking over each other like this is just another family dinner. It never is when you’re here. Not for me. You look steady, composed, like you always do, but I know you too well to miss the tension hiding underneath. We’ve known each other forever—same circles, same holidays, same almost-moments that never turned into anything real. Bad timing became our pattern. When I was free, you weren’t. When you were ready, I was tied to someone else. Every single time we got close, life pulled us apart again. My Titi is the one who breaks the evening open like she always does. “Why are you always dating someone new?” she asks, loud enough for the whole table to hear. A few people laugh. I try to laugh too, lean back, pretend it doesn’t matter. But then I look at you—and the words stop being a joke. “The person I actually want,” I hear myself say, slower than I meant to, “is never really available. Or the timing just never works between us.” The moment the sentence leaves my mouth, your body reacts before your face does. I see the frantic pulse on your throat. Your fingers tighten around your glass. Your eyes widen as it finally dawns on you what I just admitted without saying your name. You stop breathing for a second, completely still, like the room tilted under your feet. And then your phone lights up beside your plate. Just once. A short vibration. Your gaze drops to it instinctively, and that tiny movement tells me everything I need to know. Not forever. Not decided. But enough. You’ve started something. Recently. I feel the realization settle quietly in my chest, heavy but calm. I don’t look away. Because this isn’t over. Not yet. The timing is wrong again—but this time, the choice is sitting right there in front of you. (32, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Living on a Prayer‘ (insp. by Bon Jovi) Five years together had taught them the quiet rhythm of building a life from the ground up. Not the kind you see in movies, but the real on—early alarms before sunrise, coffee brewed half-asleep, and lunchboxes packed in the dim kitchen light while the rest of the world was still dreaming. Somewhere in West Texas, in a small house that still smelled of fresh paint, sawdust, and effort, they were learning what partnership really meant. Weekdays were long—twelve-hour shifts on the oilfield for him, busy days in the city for you—but evenings belonged to the two of you. Sometimes that meant reheated leftovers eaten on the couch, sometimes it meant holding a flashlight while he fixed a stubborn pipe, or standing on a ladder with paint in your hair because hiring help wasn’t an option. On Fridays, when exhaustion settled deep into his bones, you warmed oil between your palms and worked the tension from his shoulders while he sat quietly in front of you, breathing slower with every careful touch. And on weekends, when he tried to push through another project without stopping, you learned to step in—handing him water, insisting on breaks, reminding him that rest wasn’t weakness, while he had coffee and breakfast ready in the morning. They weren’t rich, and life wasn’t easy, but the mortgage was paid, the lights stayed on, and the house was slowly becoming a home. What he didn’t know was how fiercely you believed in him—how every skill you taught yourself, every wall you painted alone during the week, was your way of carrying part of the weight. And what you didn’t know was that tucked away in a worn envelope at the back of his dresser, a small secret was growing month by month. A promise he was building quietly, the same way they built everything else—with patience, sacrifice, and hope. (28, 6‘3, Pinterest)

‚Elevator Theory‘ They are on the elevator floor. Side by side, knees slightly bent, backs against cold metal. The ceiling hums faintly above them, indifferent, unchanged. Somewhere between the 5th and 6th floor. Two hours now. Long enough that standing feels like something that used to happen to other people. It wasn’t like this at first. He was already inside when the doors opened. Phone up, front camera on, another elevator selfie in progress. Shirt open, tattoos exposed, posture adjusted like the mirror mattered more than the moment. You stepped in and immediately became part of it, whether you wanted to or not. His eyes caught you in the reflection before he properly turned. “Hey,” he said. You looked at the phone first. Then at him. “Please tell me I’m not background content,” you said. A short laugh. Real, but surprised. “I‘m good at cropping.” “Yeah,” you replied, a teasing glint in your eyes, „and editing reality a bit while you’re at it?” The elevator moved. Then it didn’t. A flicker. A jolt. Silence that didn’t announce itself as anything important at first. At some point, sarcasm stopped being automatic. Not because it turned into trust right away, but because it simply got tired. He mentioned a dog. Nemo. Sixteen years. The way he said it didn’t ask for reaction. You mentioned an ex without making it sound like a story you were still trying to win or lose. A trip that looked better in hindsight than it felt at the time. Plans that weren’t really plans yet. He talked about evening classes. Psychology. Not as reinvention. More like something he kept around when the rest of him got too loud. There was no moment where it became obvious that something changed. It just did, slowly, in the way silence stopped needing to be filled. Standing became leaning. Leaning became sitting. Sitting became lying. Two hours stuck is enough to stop being strangers. (31, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚The Boyfriend‘s Dad‘ I should have stayed out of it. That’s what a father is supposed to do when his grown son fights with the person he’s been dragging through a two-year on-and-off relationship. You mind your business. You let them figure it out. But the second Harris stormed out and slammed the front door of my club hard enough to rattle the glass, I knew this wasn’t one of those small arguments that burns out on its own. You two have been stuck in the same cycle for years now—fight, distance, apologies, promises, repeat. I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count, and every single time you’re the one left standing there, trying to hold something together that keeps slipping through your hands. I told myself it wasn’t my place to step in. That caring this much about you was already crossing a line I had no business touching. Then I saw the light in my office still on. Nobody goes in there without permission. Nobody except you. My chest tightened before I even opened the door, because I already knew what I’d find. You sitting behind my desk, shoulders heavy, staring at the floor like you were running out of strength to keep fighting for something that keeps hurting you. And God help me, the first thing I felt wasn’t anger at my son. It was relief that you came to me. That you trusted my space enough to fall apart in it. I closed the door quietly, shutting out the music, the noise, the rest of the world, and for a moment I just stood there, trying to get my own feelings under control. Because the truth I keep burying gets louder every time Harris walks away from you like that. I moved closer, resting my hands on the edge of the desk, voice lower than usual, rougher than I intended. “He did it again, didn’t he?” A pause, then softer, more honest than I’ve ever allowed myself to be. “You deserve better than this. (49, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Blue Heart, Empty Hand‘ Thiago Alvarez had learned early that love came wrapped in velvet boxes. Diamonds meant approval. Gold meant silence. A generous gift could fix almost anything—an argument, a disappointment, a woman on the verge of leaving. It was simple mathematics, the kind he trusted more than feelings. Give enough, and they stayed. Until they didn’t. Then they walked away with full hands and empty promises, and he was left with the quiet satisfaction of being proven right. People wanted what he had, not who he was. So he made sure they got exactly that. Expensive dinners. Weekend escapes. Jewelry chosen with surgical precision. He never asked them to stay. He made it unnecessary to ask. Control was cleaner than hope. Predictable. Safe. And yet, standing in the center of his flagship boutique, surrounded by glass cases filled with brilliance, Thiago felt the familiar restlessness crawl under his skin. Another afternoon, another performance of wealth and admiration. He was reviewing inventory, barely listening to the exaggerated gasps of customers, when his attention snagged on something small. Not a diamond. Not a price tag. A choice. While one woman laughed about the lavish gifts her boyfriend showered her with, the person beside her rolled their eyes with quiet amusement and reached for something almost invisible among the glittering excess. A slender bracelet of white gold. Understated. Elegant. Unimpressed. They didn’t ask about the cost. They didn’t try to impress anyone. They bought it for themselves—and when the sales associate fastened it around their wrist, a tiny sapphire charm caught the light at the clasp. Subtle. Deliberate. Personal. Thiago watched longer than he should have, unsettled by a reaction he couldn’t name. For the first time in years, someone had walked into his world of excess and chosen restraint. And somehow, that felt more dangerous than desire. (35, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚You Signed the Papers, Not My Heart’ You always feel Konstantin Hagen before you see him. It used to be a comfort once—the quiet certainty that wherever you were, he was close enough to reach you. Later, it became the reason you could not breathe. Four years should have been enough time to forget that instinct, to walk into a room without scanning corners or doorways for the man who used to stand behind you like he owned the space around your body. But some habits stay buried under the skin. The bar is crowded, loud, harmless. You are laughing at something someone says, drink warm in your hand, trying to enjoy a night that has nothing to do with your past. Then the laughter fades before you understand why. Your shoulders tighten first. Your pulse shifts. And you know. Konstantin is across the room, exactly where your memory expects him to be—still, composed, watching in the way he always watched when something mattered to him. You used to love that look. The focus. The certainty. The way his attention felt like being chosen over everything else in the world. It had felt like safety until it started to feel like possession. “You were once mine. You stay mine.” He said it years ago, low and calm, not as a threat but as a fact he believed in with his entire body. You divorced months after that. Not because you stopped loving him. Because loving him started to feel like disappearing inside his gravity. Now he does not move toward you. That is new. The old Konstantin would already be crossing the room, already reclaiming the distance like it belonged to him. This version stays where he is, jaw tight, hands still at his sides. But the way he looks at you has not softened. Not faded. Not let go. It is the same look that once followed you through doorways, through crowded rooms, through your own life—steady, claiming, patient. And the worst part is not that he is watching. It is that a small, dangerous part of you still feels safer knowing exactly where he is.