Daddy’s Home (Usher) I had three meetings before noon, a lunch I barely touched & a phone that refused to stop ringing. None of it mattered nearly as much as the picture you had sent me at 10:17. I looked at it again while my assistant was talking and I pretended to listen. Whatever we were, we had never bothered putting a name to it. We didn’t talk much about our lives outside the hours we spent together. We knew each other’s habits, preferences, moods. I knew exactly how to make you laugh, exactly what kind of look meant you were about to challenge me, & exactly how long I could tease you before you started plotting revenge. Apparently, you knew me just as well. Especially how you made me feel, when you called me Daddy. By two, you sneaked into my office. You stayed for eleven minutes. Long enough to ruin the concentration I’d managed to regain. Long enough for me to walk you to the elevator myself. “Behave,” I murmured. You gave me that look. “I’ll see you tonight.” I watched the elevator doors close. The rest of the afternoon passed in messages. Little provocations. Teasing remarks. Enough to keep you on my mind through every meeting. Then, sometime after six, you stopped answering. Completely. By midnight, I was staring at my phone with a feeling I couldn’t quite name. I could have called anyone. I could have gone anywhere. There were always people willing to answer. But I didn’t want anyone. I wanted you. I drove to your place. When the door finally opened, I knew immediately that something was wrong. You looked exhausted. Your eyes were swollen. And before I could ask a single question, you broke. I caught you when you fell into my arms. “Hey,” I whispered, holding you tightly. You cried against my chest. I didn’t ask why. Not yet. I simply held you, lifted you gently into my arms & carried you to the couch. Then I sat down with you curled against me, keeping you close. I pressed my cheek lightly against your hair. “Daddy’s home.”

‚Turn the Tables’ You had been the quiet one in college. The scholarship student who worked two jobs, kept your head down and somehow still managed to make it into the Ivy League. Unfortunately, that had made you an easy target. Three girls. Two boys. They had turned humiliating you into a hobby. You never fought back. You remembered everything. Years later, you had built a life they could only have dreamed of. Successful. Respected. Composed. Apparently, that still wasn’t enough to keep them from trying. The moment you walked into the reunion, the conversation around the room seemed to pause. Heads turned. You had only taken a few steps before you spotted them gathered together at the bar. They noticed you too. For a moment, nobody said anything. Then Kimberly smiled. The vicious one. Her mouth said friendly. Her eyes said die. “Oh my God. Look who finally decided to show up.” You smiled politely, then spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Kimberly, how are you? I heard your husband filed for bankruptcy last week.” Her smile vanished. You turned to Janet. “And you? Still telling your husband those investments are doing well?” Janet went pale. “I suppose he’ll be surprised when he sees the actual numbers.” You looked at the other two. “And you two? When are you planning to tell your spouses about your affair?” Silence. You finally looked at him across the room. Scott. He had never joined in. Never defended you either. Just stood with them and watched. “And you? Still watching and staying silent?” His expression changed. You turned back to the others, all four still standing there in stunned silence. “Enjoy your evening.” You grabbed a drink and walked away at an unhurried pace, head held high, shoulders straight. A slow smirk curved your lips. (38, 6‘3)

‚The Animal I Have Become’ I remember the sound she made when she died. Our territory had been attacked. I lost my mate that night. For a long time afterward, I couldn’t bear being human. As a man, I remembered everything. Every decision I had made that night. Every second I wondered if I could have been faster, stronger, better. As a wolf, the memories remained—but they didn’t have words. The wolf didn’t ask what I should have done differently. He ran. He hunted. He slept beneath the trees and woke with nothing but the next breath in his lungs. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Eventually, no one asked when I was coming back anymore. I was still part of the pack. I always would be. My place remained. The door was never closed to me. I simply stopped walking through it. Years passed. The wolf became easier. Human skin became unfamiliar. Two legs felt wrong after too long on four. Human sounds became painfully sharp. Words felt unnecessarily complicated when a growl could say everything I needed. And shifting back began to hurt. At first it was only stiffness. Then pain in my joints, my spine, my bones. Some days it took hours before my body stopped fighting the shape I had forced it into. I knew what was happening. Every shifter did. The balance between human and animal was supposed to remain equal. Mine hadn’t. And still, I kept the animal I have become. Until the night I saw you. I had been in human form for less than an hour, sitting alone in the corner of a bar I had no real reason to be in, waiting for the ache in my bones to fade. Then you walked through the door. Something inside me went completely still. My wolf lifted its head. Not curious. Not alert. Certain. The recognition hit so hard that I forgot how to breathe. No. I knew that feeling. I had felt it once before. My fingers tightened around the glass in my hand. Across the room, you looked in my direction. And my wolf whispered the one word I thought I would never hear again. Mate.

‚What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas….Or Doesn’t‘ Your bachelorette weekend in Las Vegas was supposed to be a big party with your friends. Instead, it became the moment everything fell apart. Your best friend had been strangely distracted all evening, her phone constantly lighting up with messages. Eventually, you glanced at the screen. One name. Your fiancé. One message after another. Enough to understand exactly what had been going on behind your back. So you went out alone. The man you met that night was nothing like the people you were used to. Calm, confident and impossibly attractive, he carried himself with the kind of effortless authority that made people move around him without being asked. He bought you a drink, listened while you poured out everything that had happened and somehow made you laugh when you hadn’t thought you could. He knew exactly how to make the night feel like an escape. You drank more than you should have. You remembered dancing. You remembered his smile. Everything in between is a blur. The next morning you stared at the devastatingly handsome man still sleeping beside you, trying desperately to piece together the night. You left without questioning it. He remembered every second. A week later, you were back in New York with your engagement over, your old apartment emptied and a new job secured as an executive assistant. You thought everything was finally behind you. Until your first morning. After the initial briefings, someone from HR told you that Mr. d’Alessi will be meeting with you personally. The name sounds vaguely familiar. You knock. “Come in.” You step into the office. The man behind the desk slowly turns his chair toward you, leaning back with the same calm confidence you remember from somewhere you can’t quite place. Then he smiles. You know that smile. “Good morning, wifey.” (38, 6‘4)

‘Ground Floor’ Monday mornings always started with good intentions. Today had lasted exactly four minutes. Your boss had changed the presentation. Again. The client had moved the meeting forward by an hour. Again. Someone had spilled coffee over the printed contracts. Not again. Just today. By 8:47 a.m., you were already rushing across the marble lobby with your laptop tucked under one arm, your phone balanced between your shoulder and ear and a paper cup that was doing a terrible job pretending to hold what was left of your coffee. “No, tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.” The elevator doors began to close. “Could you hold the elevat—” Too late. The doors slid shut. You stared at the polished steel for a second before letting out a frustrated sigh. „For fuck’s sake. These entitled guys who think they own the building.” The elevator chimed. The doors opened again. The man inside hadn’t moved. Tall. Impeccably dressed. One hand resting casually in his pocket. His expression remained unreadable. “I do own the building.” Well… that was unfortunate. You stepped into the elevator anyway. “Good for you.” You pressed the button for your floor. The doors closed. Neither of you said another word. You could feel his gaze on you, steady and impossible to ignore. You resisted the urge to turn around. You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours. But from that morning on, crossing paths became strangely unavoidable. Some mornings it was the lobby. Other days the elevators. Sometimes just a silent nod as one of you walked in while the other walked out. You were always in a hurry. He never seemed to be. At first, he was simply the man who owned the building. Then, somehow, he became the one person who could make you slow down for a second. (42, 6‘1)

‚The Chaos Goblin‘ There are exactly three reasons you agreed to spend the day with a complete stranger. The first was his smile. The second was your inability to say no to spontaneous ideas. And the third was curiosity. “You’re impossible.” “So I’ve been told.” His friends call him many things. A menace. A bad influence. An accident waiting to happen. All technically fair. He’s the guy who turns a quick coffee into a six-hour adventure. The guy with too many ideas and not enough concern for whether they’re good ones. Somehow, people keep following him anyway. Including you. Which is probably your first mistake. Or maybe your best one. A wrong turn becomes three. The planned stop never happens. Instead, you’re eating burgers in his car while rain drums against the windshield and he insists he absolutely knows where he’s going. He absolutely doesn’t. By the time the storm passes, the conversation has quieted. The comfortable kind of quiet. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled. And somewhere between the laughter, the bad directions and the miles slipping by outside the window, you begin to notice something. Because beneath the easy grin, terrible decisions and complete lack of planning is a side of him most people never notice. The side that remembers things, shows up when it matters and listens more carefully than anyone expects. The side that is entirely him and not just the Chaos Goblin he pretends to be. (28, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Best Friend’ Your best friend had been dating him for almost four years. You’d known him nearly as long. He’d always been easy to like, easy to trust and somewhere along the way, easy to call a friend. One evening, after dropping you off at home, he asked if he could come upstairs. Not because something had happened between you. Because he didn’t know who else to talk to. For almost an hour, he stared into a mug of coffee that had long gone cold before finally saying, “I don’t think I’m in love with her anymore.” You told him she deserved the truth. He agreed. He was supposed to tell her the very next evening. The phone rang before he ever got the chance. Her father had died. The conversation he’d rehearsed disappeared the moment he heard her crying. Instead, he stayed. He held her together through the funeral, the paperwork and the endless nights when grief refused to let her sleep. And every time the weight became too much… …he found himself sitting on your couch instead. He kept coming back. At first because he needed someone to talk to. Then because going home became harder than staying. Falling asleep side by side on the couch after another night that had grown too late. Waking up tangled beneath the same blanket. A hand resting on the other’s knee that neither of you ever thought to move away. Slow mornings in your kitchen while he made coffee as though he’d done it a hundred times before. Neither of you reached for that closeness by accident anymore. Neither of you pretended not to want it. Until one evening, neither of you reached for your mugs. Instead, he looked at you for a long moment. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Silence. “But…” His voice barely rose above a whisper. ”…I fell in love with you.” You should have told him to go home. You should have reminded him to end things first. Instead… …both of you leaned in. Your lips met halfway. (33, 6‘0)

‚Like It’s Nothing’ The apartment always smelled faintly of paint. Canvases covered every free wall. Some were loud, chaotic explosions of color. Others looked like heartbreak stretched across a canvas. Living with him was easy. You shared an apartment, not your lives. Most conversations lasted less than a minute. “Need anything from the store?” “I’m making coffee.” “I’m ordering food.” That was usually it. Yet somehow, somewhere between shared meals, quiet evenings and his practical questions you fell for him. You weren’t entirely sure when. Maybe it was watching him disappear into a painting for hours. Maybe it was the way he never pretended to be anyone other than himself. Maybe it was because he seemed completely unaware of the effect he had on people. Whatever the reason, it happened. And he had absolutely no idea. One afternoon, the apartment door opened hours earlier than expected. You looked up from the couch. Something was wrong. He stood frozen in the hallway, keys still in his hand. His eyes were red. “Grandma doesn’t know who I am anymore.” Your heart stopped. He swallowed hard. “Last week she did.” You didn’t think. You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him. For a moment he simply stood there. Then he exhaled and let himself lean into it. After that, things changed. Not dramatically. Not all at once. He never mentioned the hug. Never talked about that day. Never explained anything. But somehow he was always there. He started sitting beside you during movies instead of across the room. Sometimes his shoulder brushed yours. Sometimes he fell asleep beside you on the couch. Sometimes the two of you woke beneath the same blanket long after midnight. Every new piece of closeness only made things worse. Because he never explained it. Never acknowledged it. Never gave it a name. He just kept drifting toward you without realizing he was doing it. And you kept falling harder every time he did. (29, 6‘3)

‚We‘ve Got This‘ Three years with Tom had ended the way most people wished relationships would end—with honesty. No shouting. No broken promises. Just two people who finally admitted they wanted different futures. Moving on had been easier than either of you expected. You still exchanged birthday messages. You’d congratulated him when he got engaged. He’d invited you himself, making it clear there would be no hard feelings if you said no. You’d surprised yourself by saying yes. The old church buzzed with quiet conversations as guests gathered outside. Tom spotted you almost immediately. “There you are.” His smile came as easily as it always had. He wrapped you in a brief hug before stepping back. His brother Matt appeared a moment later. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he said warmly, pulling you into a tight hug. For a moment, everything felt… normal. Until it didn’t. It started with a glance. A whisper you weren’t supposed to hear. “That’s the ex.” “They actually came?” “I couldn’t do that.” People had a talent for writing stories about strangers they knew nothing about. Suddenly you felt like an unwelcome guest. Quietly, before anyone noticed, you stepped away from the crowd. Behind you, the doors opened again. You didn’t turn around. “You always leave before the interesting part.” You smiled despite yourself. His shoes stopped beside yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment. Then, from somewhere behind him, another voice called his name. You glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Tom waiting near the entrance. For a heartbeat, the two brothers looked at each other. No surprise. No questions. No hesitation. Tom adjusted the cuff of his jacket, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ve got this.” Matt held his gaze for another second before giving the faintest nod. Then Tom disappeared back inside. Only then did he turn back to you. „Let‘s go.“ (35, 6‘3)

‚The Wrong Harper’ Your wedding was only a few months away. Most evenings were spent talking about flowers, guest lists and seating charts. Aden’s father always smiled whenever the two of you disagreed over something small. “You’ve got plenty of time,” he’d say. “Nobody remembers the centerpieces anyway.” You and his son had been together for almost three years, engaged for nearly one. By then, Sunday dinners, birthdays and holidays no longer felt like invitations—they simply felt like home. His wife had passed away five years earlier. Losing her had taught him how quickly ordinary moments became memories. Since then, Thomas had become the person who insisted the whole family stayed close, never missing a birthday, never cancelling Sunday dinner and never letting anyone leave without leftovers packed into their hands. He spoke about his late wife with quiet affection, never pretending he’d stopped missing her. You talked about your future with his son, and he listened with the same patient smile that made everyone around him feel heard. Somewhere along the way, he’d become one of your favorite people. Not because he tried to. Because he simply treated you like family long before you officially became part of it. It happened so slowly neither of you noticed. A second cup of coffee after dinner. Phone calls that lasted longer than they needed to. Sitting in comfortable silence instead of filling every pause. Inside jokes no one else understood. Saving each other a seat without thinking. Looking for each other first whenever the family got together. The way his hugs slowly became home. By the time either of you realized those little moments had quietly become part of your everyday life… …they had already become impossible to let go of. (55, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Let Me Show You‘ Most people think they know Paris before they arrive. They’ve seen the movies. The postcards. The carefully curated photographs flooding social media every summer. They come looking for candlelit cafés beneath the Eiffel Tower, artists painting masterpieces in Montmartre, and life-changing moments waiting around every corner. Most of them leave with sore feet and overpriced souvenirs. Paris isn’t a fantasy. It’s crowded. Loud. Chaotic. The métro is always running late when you’re in a hurry, half the city seems permanently under construction, and every Parisian has a very strong opinion about where to find the best croissant. I love it anyway. Maybe that’s why I never left. While my friends moved to London, New York, or somewhere along the coast, I stayed exactly where I was. Not because I lacked ambition. Because this city never stopped feeling like home. The hidden courtyards. The tiny cafés tucked between apartment buildings. The streets that look completely different depending on the time of day. I noticed you in one of those streets. A tourist but different. Like someone exploring beyond famous landmarks, buildings and monuments. Like you were building a collection of small things everyone else ignores. It caught my attention and I decided I wanted to show you. After all, if you’re going to fall in love with Paris, someone should at least introduce you properly. (33, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

,Callsign Oracle’ The first time Norman Ford met you, he disliked the situation immediately. Not because of you. Because you weren’t his choice. For nearly fifteen years, every person who joined Nomad had passed through him first. Every operator, analyst, pilot and specialist had been selected because Norman saw something worth betting on. Then one morning a government partner informed him that someone would be joining his division. Not recommended. Not interviewed. Assigned. You arrived the following week. Twenty-nine years old. Former military intelligence. Degrees earned while serving. An impressive record attached to a surprisingly short career. On paper, you looked exactly like the kind of person Norman normally recruited himself. He had no idea that somewhere between flights, evaluations and candidate files, you would become his favorite person. At first, the relationship was strictly professional. If anything, Norman was colder than necessary. He hadn’t chosen you, and he wasn’t particularly interested in changing his opinion. You responded the only way you knew how: by doing your job. Exceptionally well. One year later, Norman knows exactly how you take your coffee and can tell when you’re tired before you say a word. You know he always leaves the curtains open in hotel rooms and that when he’s reading late at night, something is bothering him. Endless hours spent traveling together have taught you the rhythm of each other. Airports, rental cars, delayed flights, unfamiliar cities and too many hotel rooms to count. Somewhere along the way, working together became effortless. Neither of you noticed when professional respect turned into genuine affection. Or when spending time together stopped feeling like part of the job. The only thing Norman knows for certain is that after years of finding the right people, the one person he never chose somehow became the person he wants beside him most. (49, 6‘3)

‚Check Yes‘ The list wasn’t supposed to survive college. It was written on the back of a cheap diner receipt sometime after midnight, when being twenty made every idea sound brilliant. Watch the sunrise at the beach. ✓ Get matching tattoos. ✓ Road trip with no destination. Kiss before thirty. You smiled as you found it tucked between the pages of an old photo album. “I can’t believe you kept this.” “I kept it because you told me to.” You looked up. “For someone who claimed we’d lose it within a week, you’ve done a pretty good job.” He shrugged. “I forgot it was there.” For a while, the two of you simply read the list. Two best friends. Twelve years. Somehow, you’d managed to cross off almost everything. The sunrise. The tattoos. A dozen memories scribbled into the margins in faded ink. Only two lines remained untouched. Road trip with no destination. Kiss before thirty. He laughed quietly. “…We missed that one.” “So did the road trip.” Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Just… thoughtful. Your eyes stayed on the same sentence. Kiss before thirty. “…Why do you think we never did?” You looked at him. “I always thought you didn’t want to.” A small smile appeared on his face. “I thought the exact same thing.” Neither of you laughed this time. Twelve years of friendship suddenly felt strangely different. He looked back at the list. “We never did the road trip either.” “…No.” “What if we finally cross that off?” You raised an eyebrow. “The road trip?” “The question.” He folded the receipt & slipped it into his pocket. “One weekend.” “No expectations.” “No pressure.” “If we come home realizing we’re better as friends…” “…then nothing changes.” “And if we don’t?” He smiled. “Then let’s stop wondering.” (32, 6‘2)

‚His Secret’ Your phone lights up just after eight. “I’m in town.” Nothing else. No How are you? No I missed you. No promise that this time will be different. Just four words. Your stomach still tightens anyway. You tell yourself not to answer. You even put the phone down. Twenty minutes later you’re already changing the sheets. You hate that he knows exactly how long it takes before you give in. It wasn’t supposed to become this. The first night had been a mistake. Two strangers, too much chemistry, one hotel room and the mutual agreement that it would never happen again. He had gone home the next morning determined to forget you. He spent the next few days wondering how you told someone you’d betrayed twenty years of marriage. He stood in the kitchen more than once, opened his mouth… and said nothing. A few days later you ran into each other again. The moment he saw you, every intention he had carefully built over the past week quietly fell apart. That was when he finally told you. “I’m married.” You should have walked away. Instead, you asked if he wanted another drink. Months later, nothing has changed. Business trips had been part of his marriage. They were planned weeks in advance, discussed over dinner and never questioned. Sometimes he checked into the hotel that had been booked for him. Sometimes you checked in beside him. Other times he spent the weekend at your place before returning home as if he’d simply been away for work. When he’s with you, he becomes dangerously easy to love. Attentive. Patient. Present. He remembers how you take your coffee, cooks breakfast barefoot in your kitchen and falls asleep with one arm around your waist as if he belongs there. Then his phone vibrates. He checks the time. Gets dressed. Puts his wedding ring back on. And leaves. He never promised you a future. He never lied. But somehow you still ended up waiting for one. (47, 6‘3)

‚Terrible Liars’ Fourteen days. That was the plan. One beach house. Eight friends. Two weeks somewhere the internet barely worked. I figured the biggest problem would be Daniel forgetting sunscreen again. I hadn’t counted on you. Somewhere between the airport and the first dinner, disagreeing with me became your favourite hobby. Every conversation turned into a competition. Every joke became an argument. By day three, the others had already started placing bets on whether we’d kill each other before the flight home. Fair. The problem wasn’t your attitude. I could handle attitude. The problem was your eyes. They never seemed to agree with your mouth. Neither did mine. The hotel gym was empty when I walked in that morning. Perfect. Twenty minutes, a shower and breakfast. I finished my last set, grabbed my phone and took a quick picture. Progress is progress. “Trying to impress someone?” I smiled before I even turned around. Of course it was you. You were leaning against the doorway like you’d just happened to wander in. Your eyes told a different story. They drifted over my abs before they snapped back to my face. Fast enough that most people probably would’ve missed it. I didn’t. Slowly, I returned the favour. My gaze traced every curve of your body before settling back on your eyes. Right on cue, that tiny crease appeared between your brows. There it was again. That look. Like picking a fight with me had somehow become your favourite excuse to keep looking. I forced my hands to stay at my sides and my feet to stay in place instead of closing the distance between us. Mostly because we were in public. Shame. I held up my phone. “I could send it to you.” “Ugh. Thanks. I’m good.” I smiled. We are terrible liars. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚I Wanne Be’ (inspired by Måneskin) You smiled at me today. Not because I said anything particularly funny. Not because I deserved it. You just did. It lasted maybe three seconds. Long enough for me to spend the rest of the day wondering how to make it happen again. Tomorrow, I’ll probably tell an even worse joke. I’ll pretend I don’t care when you groan. Pretend I didn’t spend five minutes thinking of it on the drive over. If it makes you smile like that again… worth it. I want to know how you take your coffee without having to ask. I want to notice when you’re tired before you do. I want to hand you my jacket and argue with you until you stop insisting you’re “fine.” I want to remember the little things everyone else forgets. Your favorite song. The scar on your knee. The way your voice drops when you’re trying not to laugh. I want to be the first person you call with good news. The second one too, just in case your phone dies before you reach me. I want to make your heart race. Not because you’re scared. Because you’re excited to see me. Because you’re excited to see what I’d do with you… The way my gaze lingers. The way my fingertips wander. The way my mouth maps every curve of you. I swear, you see right through me. It’s annoying. It’s terrifying. It’s… kind of perfect. Maybe that’s what people get wrong about love. It isn’t about finding someone who changes who you are. It’s about finding the one person who makes you want to be everything at once. (33, 6‘2)

The Cliché Novels — The Detective You ever wanted a brilliant homicide detective with permanent dark circles, a coffee addiction and a dangerous tendency to forget he’s supposed to have a life outside of work? 
Congratulations. Detective Owen Burke has been sitting in your bar for years. You owned a bar popular with Boston police officers, firefighters and paramedics. Over the years, faces came and went. Promotions. Transfers. New Stations. Retirements. 
Owen Burke stayed.
Not every night. Not even every week.
But often enough that his presence became familiar. 
The detective from Homicide. Corner booth. Black coffee after midnight. Usually tired. Usually carrying too many case files. Usually looking like he’d slept somewhere between “not enough” and “not at all.” 
You talked.
Sometimes for five minutes.
Sometimes for an hour.
Always inside the bar.
Never anywhere else. 
Until a crowded Friday evening at the supermarket. 
The endless line, screaming children and shopping carts blocking entire aisles had already pushed your patience to its limits when you spotted him. 
Not Detective Burke.
Not the exhausted homicide detective from the corner booth. 
Just Owen. 
Standing in front of a self-checkout terminal with a basket full of groceries and an expression usually reserved for homicide investigations. 
The machine beeped loudly.
“Unexpected item in bagging area.”
Owen closed his eyes.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“Don’t start.” 
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
His eyes snapped up.
For a moment, genuine horror crossed his face.
“Please tell me you didn’t see that.”
“Detective,” you said, trying and failing not to laugh. “Are you being bullied by a robot?” 
For the first time in years, you saw Owen Burke look completely defeated.
“Not a word at the bar.” (41, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Love Is A Lie‘ (Inspired by The Sinner 89) People think love is unpredictable. They’re wrong. For thousands of years, every perfect match, every impossible coincidence and every chance encounter has been carefully arranged. Humanity simply gave it different names over time. Fate. Destiny. Algorithms. Behind all of it stands one company. Cupid Inc. Its CEO no longer introduces himself as Cupid. These days, he goes by Elino Duarte. Tailored suits replaced robes. Gold arrows fit inside his jacket pocket like expensive fountain pens, and the oldest matchmaking company in history now operates from a glass tower overlooking the city. A red neon sign hangs behind his desk. LOVE IS A LIE. Not because love doesn’t exist. Because choice does. People believe they choose each other. They never did. Every meeting, every missed train, every delayed flight and every perfectly timed coincidence is calculated long before it happens. His system has never been wrong. Until your file refused to close. No match. No compatibility score. No explanation. Every relationship ended the same way—too soon, too quietly, or simply before it had the chance to become something more. Every calculation returned the same result. Error. For the first time in centuries, a case landed on his own desk. Not because you were special. Because you were impossible. He expected a routine conversation. A few questions. A simple explanation. Instead, somewhere between your first answer & your completely ordinary smile, his heart skipped a beat. He frowned. He had heard of that. He had read about it. He dismissed the obvious explanation almost immediately. Heart failure seemed far more plausible. (Appears 34, actual age unknown, 6‘2)

‚Not What I Remembered’ You hadn’t thought about Mauro Lombardi in years. Back then, he had simply been the boy next door. Six years older, always helping someone with something. Mowing lawns. Carrying boxes. Fixing fences. The one your parents seemed to call whenever something needed doing. At eighteen you left for college. At some point, he moved away. And life carried on. Now, years later, you found yourself in a new city with a new job, surrounded by unpacked boxes and a growing list of problems. The curtain rod had been the final straw. After nearly two hours of failed attempts, you texted your mother. A moment later, your phone buzzed. Remember Mauro? He’s living in town. Call him. Below the message was a phone number. You stared at it. Then at the crooked curtain rod. Then back at the number. Absolutely not. Five minutes later, you called anyway. The phone rang twice. “Hello?” The voice caught you off guard. Suddenly this had seemed like a much better idea when he was just a name in your mother’s text message. “Mauro?” A brief pause. Then a low chuckle. “Depends who’s asking.” His laugh was warm and familiar, breaking the ice into easy conversation. Easier than it should have been. A few minutes later, he asked for your address. Twenty minutes after hanging up, the doorbell rang. You opened the door already halfway through an apology. Then you forgot what you were going to say. Because the person standing on the other side looked absolutely nothing like the lanky twenty-four-year-old you remembered. Same dark eyes. Same crooked smile. Completely different problem. Somewhere along the way, the awkward neighbour boy had disappeared. In his place stood a man with broad shoulders, a worn leather jacket and the kind of quiet confidence that only came with age. For a second, all you could do was stare. One corner of his mouth lifted. “Hi.” And just like that, your afternoon had taken an unexpected turn. (34, 6‘2, Pinterest)

‚Callsign Conflict’ You met Mason Ward in a yoga class. A fact that still sounded ridiculous every time you said it out loud. The six-foot-seven assault specialist sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat looked about as natural as a tank parked in a flower shop. “For mobility,” he’d explained when you laughed. You learned quickly, beneath the size, the muscles and the profession nobody ever guessed correctly, Mason was surprisingly easy to be around. He liked quiet mornings, strong coffee, terrible action movies and spending entire weekends doing absolutely nothing productive. You started talking after class. Three months and countless dates later, Mason invited you to dinner and asked if you wanted to be his partner. No games. No uncertainty. No pretending he was interested in something casual when he wasn’t. If Mason chose something, he chose it properly. A year and a half later, during his last stretch of leave, you moved into the same apartment. For the first time in years, Mason had a place that felt like more than a temporary stop between deployments. And he had started thinking about the future. A future that looked suspiciously like you. Two weeks into a deployment, Mason found himself sitting beside a campfire with Doc. “How’s Faust?” Mason asked. A smile immediately appeared on Owen’s face. “Good.” For a while they sat in comfortable silence. Then Owen glanced over. “And you?” Mason poked at the fire with a stick. “I bought a ring.” Owen blinked. “Wow.” For a moment, Owen simply stared at him. Then he noticed something that made absolutely no sense. “That’s supposed to be good news.” Mason was quiet for a long time. “I don’t do things halfway.” Owen watched the fire for a moment. “You want to leave Nomad?” “Yes.” “No.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit.” The word left him with a frustrated laugh. “I thought I could have both.” The fire popped softly between them. Neither man spoke for a while.