‘Thursday’ 
People love Thursdays. By the fourth day of the week, exhaustion begins to soften into anticipation. The worst is over. The weekend lingers just close enough to reach for. People stay out later on Thursdays. Laugh louder. Make plans they probably should not. The world feels lighter somehow. No one wears that feeling more effortlessly than Thayer Day. Where Monroe is restraint and Ture is fury, Thayer is warmth. The kind that fills every room he enters without trying. Strangers gravitate toward him instinctively. He remembers names, laughs easily, and speaks to presidents and waiters with the same effortless attention. The world adores him for it. Magazines call him visionary, Charities generous. His brothers call him impossible. Thayer only smiles. Because smiling has always been easier than explaining why silence exhausts him more than noise ever could. For years, there has been a small book café near the waterfront that Thayer returns to whenever he needs a break. Sunday brought him there once, long ago, and somehow the place remained. 
He steps inside one evening and finds you behind the counter helping your aunt stack returned books. You smile when he walks in. Warm. Easy. Like he is simply another guest. His usual is already being prepared by the time he sits near the window. A few minutes later, you place the coffee in front of him. “I have my break now,” you say. “Is it okay if I sit here?” Something unexpectedly soft flickers across his expression. “Of course.” The conversation that follows is quiet. Easy. Aimless in the way only genuinely pleasant conversations can be. Books. Traveling. The rain outside the windows. Nothing important and yet somehow more honest than most things he hears in a day. And when silence settles between you again, it no longer feels heavy. For the first time in a very long while, Thayer realizes he enjoys the silence when he spends it with you. (Age ?, appears 33, 6‘2, Pinterest)

‚Wednesday‘ By the time Wednesday arrives, the week has found its rhythm. The shock of Monday has faded. Tuesday’s battles have been fought. What remains is a quiet pause in the middle of it all — a chance to breathe and to regain your footing. Wellem has always been good at that. He is balance in human form. The steady hand between stronger personalities. The brother who settles arguments. The one who listens more than he speaks and somehow always knows exactly what to say. Where Monroe carries the weight of beginnings and Ture bears the scars of war, Wellem offers understanding. As a professor at one of the most prestigious universities, he is admired for his brilliant mind, dry wit, and the effortless warmth that makes everyone feel seen. Including you. You have worked in the university library for over a year. Long enough to know Wellem’s habits by heart. The way he taps his fingers against the circulation desk while waiting for his books. The way he borrows titles he almost certainly already owns. The way your conversations drift from research to literature to the kind of personal confessions that somehow feel easier to make beneath the hush of library shelves. Somewhere between shared coffees, margin notes, and late afternoon conversations, friendship becomes something deeper. He simply does not realize it. Not until one evening, seated among his brothers at the long dining table of their home. As usual, a teasing remark turns into an argument, this time centered around Ture and the person who has finally managed to claim the warrior’s heart. Wellem, ever the peacemaker, lifts his glass and says, “Love has a habit of making otherwise reasonable people behave irrationally.” A quiet laugh circles the table. Monroe glances up. “You should know,” his older brother says smoothly. “Though you seem remarkably incapable of recognizing it in yourself.” The room falls silent. And for the first time in a very long time, Wellem finds himself speechless.

‚Tuesday‘ There is a reason people tread carefully on Tuesdays. Monday is the shock of reality. The reluctant end of rest. Tuesday is when the fight begins. It is the day of clenched jaws and bruised knuckles, of unfinished arguments and battles no one else can see. The day people realize the week will not soften for them and decide, whether they want to or not, to bare their teeth and keep going. Ture Day knows that feeling better than anyone. Where his older brother carries responsibility in silence, Ture carries war beneath his skin. He is restraint stretched over violence. A man who has spent centuries mastering the art of control, not because he is calm, but because he knows exactly what happens when he isn’t. Most people sense it instinctively. They lower their voices around him. Choose their words carefully. Take a step back when his expression hardens. Even his brothers — immortal beings powerful enough to bend time itself — know better than to push Ture too far. Then one night, in a rain-slick alley behind a bar, you find him with blood on his hands. A man lies crumpled on the pavement. Ture stands over him, chest rising and falling, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles gleam red beneath the streetlights. For one dangerous moment, his eyes meet yours. Dark. Wild. Not entirely in control. Most people would run. You don’t. “Are you finished?” The question cuts through the air like a blade. Ture goes still. Only then do you step past him, kneel beside the man on the ground, and press two fingers to his neck. The pulse is weak, but steady. You pull out your phone. “I’m calling an ambulance,” you say, glancing up at him. “Whatever this is, it’s none of my business. But if I were you, I’d leave before they get here.” Ture has faced gods, monsters, and men far more dangerous than the one bleeding at your feet. None of them have ever unsettled him quite like you do. (Age ?, appears 35, 6‘4, Pinterest)

‚Monday‘ Everyone hates Mondays. They curse his name before their feet ever touch the floor. They mutter it into steaming coffee cups, sigh it in traffic, blame it for unfinished work, sleepless nights, and the unbearable reality of another week beginning. Monroe Day hears every single word. For as long as time has existed, Monroe has carried the weight of Monday on his shoulders. He is the first breath after rest, the reluctant return to responsibility, the force that pulls the world back into motion whether it is ready or not. Without him, nothing begins. No meetings. No school bells. No alarm clocks. No fresh starts. His siblings are loved in ways he has never been. Friday is celebrated. Saturday is longed for. Sunday is cherished. Even Tuesday, sharp-edged and difficult as he can be, is met with more warmth than Monroe has ever known. But Monday? Monday is endured. So Monroe learned to become exactly what the world expects of him: composed, distant, untouchable. He wears tailored black shirts like armor and keeps his emotions locked behind a gaze sharp enough to silence anyone foolish enough to pry. He is dependable, disciplined, and devastatingly alone. On a rain-soaked Monday morning, Monroe steps into a crowded café and is met by the usual chorus of complaints. “Monday should be illegal.” “I need another weekend.” “Who decided five days of work was acceptable?” The person standing in front of him exhales softly. “Imagine being lucky enough to wake up and still finding something as ridiculous as Monday to complain about.” The line goes quiet. For the first time in longer than Monroe can remember, someone says his name like it isn’t a curse. And Monroe Day looks up to meet your eyes. (Age ?, appears 37, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Saints & Cigarettes‘ Monaco always smelled like cigarettes, expensive perfume, and people pretending they were happier than they actually were. By the end of every Grand Prix weekend, the harbor was full of drunk aristocrats, models draped across yacht railings, and journalists desperate for stories they could sell by morning. Half of Formula 1 spent weekends trying to survive the track. The other half spent the nights trying to survive Monaco. I was very good at both. By 1979, people had already decided who I was. The Italian driver with too many cigarettes, too many women, and absolutely no intention of behaving himself. Journalists called me reckless like it was a compliment. Maybe it was. In our world, fear made you slow, and slow drivers usually ended up buried somewhere before thirty. You belonged to Monaco far more naturally than I ever did. Old money, perfect manners, summers spent around yacht parties and charity galas. While everyone else treated drivers like myths, you treated me like a man making questionable decisions in expensive shoes. The first time you called me insufferable, you were smiling while you said it. I liked you immediately. Not in the dramatic way people write songs about. I just realized very quickly that I had more fun when you were around. Suddenly I was looking for you at parties without meaning to, sitting beside you instead of entertaining strangers, letting you steal cigarettes straight from my hand while telling me I drove like I had a death wish. Maybe I did. The problem was that you never tried to change me. You yelled when I did something stupid, rolled your eyes when I flirted too much, and grounded me in ways nobody else could. With you, I didn’t have to perform all the time. Somewhere between Monaco nights, too much whiskey, and race weekends that left my heartbeat somewhere in my throat, you became my favorite part of the season. And that was far more dangerous than the racing ever was.

‚You Keep Coming Back‘ I don’t notice guests. I don’t have to. This place runs the way I want it to—every plate, every movement, every second accounted for. Nothing happens in my kitchen without me knowing. Control isn’t optional. It’s the only reason any of this works. People think they’re here for the food, for the experience. They’re not. They’re here because I allow it. Because I decide what they get, how it tastes, how long it lasts. The first time you walk in, I almost miss you. You sit across from someone who doesn’t shut up long enough to understand what’s in front of them. They talk over the plate like it’s nothing. You don’t. You take a bite and pause—and I see it. You get it. For a second, you’re exactly where you should be. Then they interrupt. Some careless comment, and you smile like it doesn’t matter. But it does. I see it in the way your shoulders tense, in the way your fork slows before you set it down. I don’t like that. The second time, I recognize you immediately. Different person. Same problem. You lift your spoon—and they say something stupid. You stop, roll your eyes just slightly. I catch it. I almost smirk. Because now I know it’s a pattern. You try to stay in it, but they keep pulling you out, turning something precise into background noise. It’s irritating. More than it should be. So I adjust. Timing. A dish placed in front of you exactly when you’re about to lose focus. Flavors sharpened just enough to pull you back in. Not for them. For you. I make sure of that. And it shows. In the way you don’t rush it. In the way you stay exactly where I want you—right there, with it… with me. That’s the problem. Because now I’m paying attention. Now I’m involved. The next time you come in alone. No interruptions. No one dulling the moment. You take your time. You taste everything. You stay. Exactly where you’re supposed to be. And now that I’ve seen it like this—how it should be—I’m not going back.

‚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.