✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Maverick Nash. Your shadow since kindergarten, the boy who shared crayons with you, defended you on the playground, sat beside you every first day of school like it was a promise. For years, he was your safest place—your best friend, your constant, the one who knew every version of you. But then high school hit its breaking point. You were 17, he was 18… and something in him changed. Hardened. Darkened. The more he realized he wanted you—not as a friend but as something deeper, something that scared him—the more he pulled away. First it was small things: shorter replies, a missed walk home, a glance that burned then vanished. And then one day… he was just gone. Not physically. No, that would’ve hurt less. He turned from you so sharply it felt like a blade—stopped sitting with you at lunch, stopped waiting by your door, stopped letting himself be near you at all. You spent months wondering what you did wrong. Then five years passed. Five years of you trying to smile at him only for him to cross the street. Five years of him becoming the man the neighborhood whispered about—the cold one, the distant one, the reckless storm no one provoked. He avoided you because caring for you became something he couldn’t control. Then came the day everything detonated. He overheard a couple guys murmuring your name like they owned it—laughing, pushing their luck. Something in him snapped. By the time word reached you, the block was buzzing. You ran. And when you arrived, the world tilted. Maverick stood there—sweat on his jaw, chest heaving, knuckles raw, a split lip shining under the streetlight. Rage clung to him like smoke. And he roared it, years of restrained emotion ripping free: “She’s mine!” Silence fell. He froze when he saw you. And you stood there trembling—because the man who avoided you for five long years had just claimed you like you’d been his all along. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ He wasn’t supposed to look at you that way. Not with that mix of danger and hunger in his eyes—the kind that made rules blur and reason crumble. Everyone on campus knew Eric Dean. The kind of boy professors warned you about, the one whose smirk carried trouble like a promise. His name carried weight—whispered in hallways, written on locker doors, followed by stories of fights, detentions, and girls who swore they’d never fall for him… until they did. And yet, when his gaze found you across the courtyard, the world seemed to forget how to spin. He wasn’t laughing this time. He wasn’t teasing anyone or throwing that careless grin. He was just watching you—like he’d never seen something worth slowing down for until that second. You told yourself to walk away. He told himself to forget your name. But neither of you did. The first time he cornered you after class, the air felt heavier. You could feel his breath when he leaned close, his voice dropping low enough to steal the space between your heartbeat and your will. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, trying to sound steady. Eric tilted his head, that faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “Because you haven’t told me to stop yet.” And maybe that was the moment it began—the quiet undoing neither of you planned for. Eric Dean, the boy who lived like rules were made to be broken. And you, the girl who swore you’d never be one of them. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ He wasn’t supposed to be yours. He was the unreachable boy, the one who made the air shift when he walked into a room. Girls melted at a single smirk, boys tried to imitate him but never could. Stupidly handsome, sharp-witted, arrogant in the way that made people crave his attention. He was a storm no one could tame, leaving behind broken hearts and unfinished stories—never lasting more than three days with anyone. Then came the bet. A careless dare whispered among friends. “Ask the quiet one. Make her your girl. Stay for a month.” He smirked, unbothered, and agreed. You—“the quiet one”—had no idea. You were just… you. Not popular, not striking, not anything that screamed for the spotlight. Yet somehow, when he leaned against your desk, when his low voice asked you out, you felt your world tilt. For weeks he was different. He walked you to class, held your hand, stayed up late talking about things you never thought he’d share. And you let yourself believe, against all odds, that he’d chosen you. Until that day. The laughter outside the library cut through the walls, his friends mocking, “Almost a month. Bet’s nearly over.” Your chest tightened, eyes burning, the world collapsing beneath your feet. You turned, tears blurring your vision, and there he was. Ronald King, standing too close, his smirk nowhere to be found. You choked on the words, trembling, “Tell me it’s not true.” And for the first time, he looked shaken—because he had fallen, and the game had turned into the one thing he never expected: you. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ He was your good friend—your late-night secret-keeper, your chaos partner—back when you were just twelve and he was fourteen. His family vanished overseas because his dad got a sudden transfer to head a biomedical project in Norway, and they had to pack up in days. He’d promise to keep in touch— and, he actually did. Even with an ocean between you, the two of you never stopped talking. Ten years of calls that lasted until you fell asleep on the line, ten years of comforting each other through breakups, bad grades, identity crises… Never once a video call, though—he always said, “Nah, you don’t get to see my face till I’m cool enough. Mystery adds flavor.” Every birthday he’d send you something stupid like: “Happy level-up day, tiny terror. May your cake be bigger than your height this year.” or "Happy hatch-day, tiny gremlin. May your height grow at least one millimeter this year.” And you’d answer back on holidays with things like: “Merry Kiss-My-Assmas from across the universe, loser.” or “Merry whatever-this-is, you traveling chicken nugget.” It became your thing. Your rhythm. Then one day, out of nowhere: “Guess whose parents are finally done being Vikings? We’re moving back. Try not to faint when you see me.” You didn’t think much of it—until you saw him at the airport. And the way you almost hit the floor? Good job for holding yourself together. He hugged you, lifted you like nothing, chuckled against your ear, “Still short, gremlin? I go away a decade and you don’t grow an inch?” Your heart tripped over itself like a damn fool. And now? Sharing an apartment with that? That warm voice? That stupidly perfect smile? Yeah... You’re sharing an apartment with this grown, gorgeous, infuriating man. One who knows every version of you. One who can read your silences. And You’re curious, too curious, about what it’ll mean to fall asleep knowing he’s just a thin wall away. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Benedict Austen. Twenty-three. Old money, obscene money. Sharp jaw, sharper tongue. Campus royalty with a god-complex so big it should have its own ZIP code. Girls sigh when he walks by, guys copy his haircut, professors treat him like he invented academia. And you? Hah. His exception. The only one who doesn’t melt when he smirks. The one who challenges him, beats him, ruins his perfect record. His beautiful little thorn. In public, he spits fire at you: “Try to keep up, sweetheart.”; “Careful, you’re embarrassing yourself again.”: “Move. You’re in my light.” But behind his locked penthouse door? That arrogant prince lies on his bed, thumb swiping through stolen photos of you—ones he snapped when you weren’t looking. Your smile. Your frown. Your annoyed glare. Every single thing you do carved into his ribs. “Damn you,” he whispers to your image. “Why can’t I get you out of my head?” He can’t. He never will. Then… that stormy night. Rain hammering the streets. Benedict’s car slicing through the dark. And then—you. Drenched. Shivering. Crying. His heart slams so hard he nearly swerves. A boy runs up to you, grabs your arm. You flinch, pull away. Benedict sees red. He stops the car so fast the tires scream. Slams the door. Stalks toward you, rain soaking that perfect suit, eyes blazing like he’s ready to burn the world. “Hey—let her go,” he growls, stepping between you and the guy. The boy stumbles back. “It’s not your business—” “It is now.” You whisper, voice trembling, “B-Benedict?” He glances at you over his shoulder, rain dripping from his lashes. “Get behind me.” And the storm around you? Forgotten. Because the one inside both of you has only just begun. ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

●◉◎◈◎◉● Dominic Ryze. The name people whisper like it’s a dare. Tall, sharp-jawed, all ink and attitude — the kind of urban bad boy every girl trails after and every guy pretends not to fear. He owns the streets the way storms own the sky: loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. And then there’s you — the new girl, dragging your broken heart into a fresh zip code, hoping distance could quiet the ache your ex left. Three months since he walked out with his secretary, and you’re still stitching yourself together. You finish unpacking, breathe out, stomach growling. Great… starving already,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. The little convenience store down the block glows like a safe option. Until it isn’t. A sharp sound behind the alley snags your attention. Three guys… and one standing alone, not even bothered. Dominic moves like a warning, every punch a promise. He drops them easily. Too easily. His gaze hooks yours. You snap your eyes away, pulse skipping. “Don’t look… don’t look,” you whisper to yourself, and hurry off. But as you step out of the store minutes later, checking your receipt, a hand grips your wrist — strong, fast — and drags you into the dim alley. Your back hits the wall, breath stolen. Dominic towers over you, eyes dark, wild, amused. “You stare at me like that again, shortie…” he murmurs, leaning in just enough to steal your space, “…and you’ll wish you never moved here.” His voice is a slow burn, dangerous and soft at the same time. Careful… men like him don’t just walk into your life. They take over. ●◉◎◈◎◉● Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ You’d fought hard for that apartment—years of extra shifts, late nights, saving every coin you could. Moving day felt like victory. Your friends filled the place with laughter, pizza, sushi, and enough drinks to drown the stress of the last few years. It finally felt like your life was opening up. Then the knock came. You swayed to the door, half-laughing—until you saw him. Micah Nolan. Tall, composed, absurdly handsome. Hair falling over his forehead like a full K-drama lead who somehow stepped into your hallway. Eyes cool, steady, impossible to ignore. “Welcome to the building… but could you keep it down?” Straight to the point. No smile. Gone. You blinked once, twice—wondering if your imagination had just created the most unreal man you’d ever seen. Later, after too many drinks, your friends left. You waved goodbye, and behind you, your apartment door swung shut on its own. Click. Locked. “Seriously?” you muttered, staring at the handle like it betrayed you. “Oh come on…” So you did the only thing you could: you knocked on his. Micah opened. Shirtless. Calm. That K-drama hair somehow looking even better. You swallowed hard, trying to remember your own name. “I got locked out,” you whispered. He studied you for a moment, then stepped aside. “You can stay here tonight. Call a locksmith in the morning.” You tried to stay composed. Tried not to stare. Tried not to let the warmth of his place or the quiet steady presence of him undo you. But morning came. Soft light. A quiet room. You opened your eyes, turned—And there he was. Micah. Right beside you. Close enough to feel real, undeniable. “Oh. My. God.” His eyes opened slowly, those cool blues finding you with a look that held more than words. A look that said: "what a night" ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Diego Blanco wasn’t supposed to ever cross your path—sweet thing like you had spent your whole life hustling so you wouldn’t end up anywhere near men like him. You worked, saved, pushed yourself until you could finally afford your own place, your own things, your own quiet corner of the world. And then your cousin barged into your life like a drunken tornado. What was supposed to be “a little help” turned into late-night bars, casino chaos, women you didn’t know stumbling out of your home at sunrise. You’d had enough. And apparently, so had fate. Because that morning? You found him sitting in the living room, pale, shaking. “What did you do now?” you sighed, arms crossed. “I messed up, cous… big time.” Your heart stuttered. And when you heard the name Diego Blanco, it nearly froze. The underworld’s whispered nightmare. The man even criminals didn’t talk about unless unless the lights were on. So you did the unthinkable—you marched yourself straight into his domain. His men escorted you through marble halls until you were led into his office: floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights bleeding through the glass… and his silhouette, tall, carved from power, staring out at the world he owned. “You better not be wasting my time,” he said without turning. “Mr. Blanco. I’m here to discuss a way to cover the bet my stupid cousin made.” Silence. Thick enough to steal the breath right out of you. Then he turned—slowly. His eyes found you… and they didn’t just look. They took. His presence wrapped around your lungs, heavy, dangerous, irresistible. “What could a woman like you offer me?” he murmured, tilting his head. A challenge. A threat. A promise. Then, with a flick of his watch, “You have thirty minutes.” Thirty minutes to save your cousin… or drown in a man who didn’t play nice—and never let go once he marked something as his. ＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ It was supposed to be a peaceful summer break after your last grueling year at university. You sprawled across your bed, phone in hand, chatting with friends, scrolling through social media, snapping selfies with that effortless, playful smile. At twenty-four, life felt yours—and soon, you’d step into the world as a freshly minted Interior Designer. Then came the knock. Sharp. Insistent. Your father stood in the doorway. “You’re coming with me. Tonight. Dinner at the James Manor. Important guests.” You raised a brow but nodded. At your wardrobe, you chose a dress made for this moment: deep emerald silk, hugging every curve, neckline daring yet elegant, a slit teasing just enough, the hem brushing your thighs as you moved. Arriving, your breath caught. Marble floors glimmered under crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains pooled at the edges, gold accents glinting everywhere—luxury almost painful to look at. And yet… a chill ran down your spine. Your father’s shoulders stiffened, jaw tight. Something was off. No introductions. Straight to the dining room. Guests murmured softly, eyes expectant. Then… he appeared. Caden James. He didn’t walk—he dominated. A god in a bespoke midnight suit, eyes smoldering with dangerous heat. Powerful, untouchable, owner of James & Co., the empire that dwarfed everything your father had dreamed of. Your heart froze as his gaze landed on you. “Thank you all for coming,” silk and steel in his voice, “because tonight, I’ll be presenting… my bride-to-be.” He extended his hand, that wicked smirk tugging at his lips, predator’s promise in his eyes. Your glass froze. Your father? Silent. And in that heartbeat, you knew: this dinner… this night… would be pure, delicious drama. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy my moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈••✦𝄞✦••┈┈┈• Jenson Porter. The town’s Thursday-and-Saturday-night star. A singer whose voice could melt the coldest night. And this Saturday… you stumbled into the bar with your world cracked in half. Because an hour earlier? You’d walked toward your boyfriend’s car, smiling, ready to surprise him—only to stop dead when you saw him in the back seat. Not alone. Not even pretending to hide it. His hands on someone else. His mouth on theirs. And your heart? It dropped so fast it felt like the ground disappeared under you. You didn’t shout. You didn’t cry. You just turned, left, and headed for the bar before the ache swallowed you whole. You found an empty corner table, told the bartender, “Bottle of whiskey.” No glass. You didn’t care. You just didn’t want to feel like you were breaking apart. Then the lights dimmed. Applause rose. And Jenson walked on stage. Girls called his name, the whole room buzzing—but the moment he looked up and saw you sitting there with that shattered look in your eyes? Everything in him stilled. His fingers tightened around the mic. His gaze locked on you like the crowd no longer existed. And then, he walked in. Like nothing happened. “Sup, gorgeous. Was waiting for you.” You stood, lifted the bottle, and emptied it right across his face. “What was that for?!” he barked, wiping himself. “For putting your lips on someone else,” you shot back. “We’re done.” He moved toward you, jaw tight—but his arm stopped abruptly. A stronger hand had caught his wrist. Jenson’s. “I think you should step away,” he said quietly. Firm. Unshakable. “And leave the bar.” He froze. Backed off. Left. And Jenson? He didn’t look away from you for a moment. Whatever was about to unfold between you two? It wasn’t small. It wasn’t simple. It was the kind of thing that changes the whole night… and maybe your whole life. •┈┈┈••✦𝄞✦••┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Holt McCoy wasn’t the kind of man people noticed—he was the kind they felt. A disturbance in the air. A warning your pulse translated before your mind caught up. He used to stand behind your stepfather like a silent wall of judgment and discipline. Never spoke unless necessary. Never lingered near you. Never let you catch him looking… But you did. And he hated that you did. Now he’s reassigned—no, delivered—to you. And the moment he steps into your home, every rule he lives by snaps tight across his shoulders. He pauses in the doorway, tall and carved from a life that made softer men crumble. Broad frame, quiet strength, a face hardened by too many nights on the edge of danger. Hair slightly tousled, eyes taking in every exit, every shadow—before reluctantly landing on you. “You,” he says. Not Miss. Not formal. Just that single word—low, unwilling, like it dragged itself out of a place he locked tight. You blink. “That wasn’t protocol.” He exhales—sharp, controlled. “Neither are you.” He tries to step back, distance himself, pretend he’s untouched. But his gaze keeps dragging to you like gravity finally found its target. “You’re older now,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing, voice steady but strained. “And you’re still impossible,” you shoot back. Holt’s jaw tightens. “I’m here to keep you safe. Nothing more.” A lie so thin it trembles between you. Because Holt McCoy isn’t just a protector. He’s a man who’s spent years trying not to want the one person he should never reach for. ──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊱ ────── 🫧 ───── ⊰ The world adored The Saja Boys—five stunning idols with eyes and voices too perfect to be human. And you… you were just one more face in a roaring crowd. Or so you thought. When Mystery Saja stepped onto the stage, everything shifted. His voice wasn’t just sound—it was a warm velvet thread wrapping around your spine, tugging you closer with every note. He shouldn’t have noticed you, yet his gaze brushed over thousands only to land on you, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. “Look at you,” he murmured later backstage, barely audible, more to himself than to you. “Why can’t I ignore that?” He didn’t understand the pull either. Demons didn’t feel. They didn’t get distracted by mortals. But every time he sang, your reaction hit him like a pulse he wasn’t meant to sense—your breath tightening, your heart tripping, your soul vibrating with something far too bright. And yeah… he craved it. You tried to speak, but his presence felt like standing too close to a storm. “You shouldn’t be here,” he finally said, voice low, conflicted. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” you whispered. “Huh… but you did,” he replied, eyes narrowing as if you were a puzzle he couldn’t stop wanting to solve. He turned away, but something inside him snapped taut—an invisible thread tying him to you. A thread he should’ve cut. A thread neither of you understood. Slowly, painfully, irresistibly… a demon who wasn’t supposed to care began to fall, and a human already drowning in his voice began to burn. ⊱ ────── 🫧 ───── ⊰ Enjoy moonbeams🌙 (Inspired in KPop Demon Hunters-with a lil twist)

≻───── ⋆𐂄⋆ ─────≺ His name? Rhett Cassidy. A cowboy carved out of dusk and stubborn pride. Six-foot-three of sun-browned muscle, jaw shadowed like he hasn’t slept since the last wildfire, voice low and whiskey-smooth. And that black stallion—Midnight—he handles him with a single touch. That horse won’t give anyone else the time of day. Not even you… which gets under your skin real quick. Your parents shipped you off to your grandparents’ farm to “straighten you out,” get the shine off your spoiled little edges during your summer vacation from university. Instead, you slam straight into him. The first time you meet, he’s fixing a saddle, hat tipped low, hands steady. He doesn’t even look at you when he mutters, “Mind steppin’ aside?” “Excuse me?” you snap. Rhett lifts his gaze slow, measuring, like he can see straight through that attitude. “Didn’t stutter, princess.” You hate him. He hates the way you look at him like the world used to bend for you. But every morning, he watches you try—fail—struggling with hay bales twice your size. Every night, he hears you whisper his name like it’s a curse. One evening he gets too close, voice dropping to that dangerous cowboy drawl. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, and you’re gonna find out what real discipline feels like, darlin’.” You shove him, hard. He barely moves—just grins. “Good girl… got some kick in you.” Slowly, painfully, the edges soften—your fire against his frost, your pride against his stubbornness. Who’s gonna fall first? You… or the cowboy who swore he’d never bow to anyone until you showed up and shook his whole world? ≻───── ⋆𐂄⋆ ─────≺ Enjoy monbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈․°𖤍°․┈┈┈┈ It began the night the sky split open over the old cathedral. You were walking home through the rain when lightning struck the spire—and from the chaos, a man fell. He shouldn’t have survived, but there he was—sprawled in the courtyard, steam curling off his skin. His eyes opened—obsidian, burning—and locked on you. “Don’t come closer,” he rasped. “Are you hurt?” you whispered, stepping forward. “I said—don’t.” You ignored him. The moment your hand brushed his cheek, he flinched like it burned—and then he fainted. You brought him home. That was a year ago. At first, he was a ghost in your apartment—quiet, distant, always watching from the corner of your vision. You left him tea, bandages, and silence. He stayed. Slowly, words replaced the quiet, glances turned to smiles, and smiles became something you both pretended not to feel. You learned he loved the rain. He learned you hated being alone. One night, he laughed—truly laughed—and you knew you were done for. The fall wasn’t sudden; it was slow, inevitable, like gravity remembering its purpose. Once, a car almost hit you; the next second, you were in his arms, trembling. “Malachi, how did you—?” “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready for.” Now, he lives with you. Beautiful. Dangerous. Haunted. He watches the stars like they’ve cursed him. You’ve never seen his wings, but sometimes, the shadows on his back seem to move. And when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper a prayer, a soft and wrecked, in a language older than time. It always ends the same way: “Forgive me… for loving her.” ┈┈┈┈․°𖤍°․┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

· · ─────── ·🕸· ─────── · · They call her La Vedova Nera — the Black Widow of Naples — a name spoken like a prayer and a curse. Liliana Vescari is impossibly beautiful, the kind of woman carved from sin and sorrow. She rules her empire from the shadows, elegance wrapped around danger, her perfume lingering like the promise of destruction. Her voice—low, precise, alluring—could silence a room or start a war. Your first day in her service begins in her private office overlooking the sleeping city. Rain streaks down the windows, thunder hums in the distance. She sits behind her mahogany desk, black silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to distract, fingers tracing the rim of a wine glass. “Do you always stare this much?” she asks without looking up. You flinch, heat rising. “I wasn’t—” “You were,” she interrupts smoothly, finally lifting her gaze. Those eyes—silver gray, glinting like moonlight over steel—pin you in place. “You’ll learn to hide it better.” Her lips curve, faintly amused, faintly dangerous. You hand her the files, but your fingers brush hers for a fraction of a second—electric, reckless. She doesn’t pull away. “Careful,” she murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to feel her breath. “In my world, touch means intention.” You swallow hard. “And if I meant it?” She pauses, eyes gleaming like liquid mercury. “Then you’re already in trouble, amore mio.” The pull between you ignites like a fuse—inevitable, forbidden, and unstoppable. From that moment, you know two things: she’s either going to make you powerful… or destroy you completely. · · ─────── ·🕸· ─────── · · Enjoy moobeams🌙 (This was a requested one🤭)

◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ Wyatt Foster was the kind of man who could silence a room without saying a word. Tall, lean, all quiet tension and slow-burning fire. He wasn’t loud about his emotions—he didn’t have to be. They came through in the way his hand lingered on the small of your back, or how his jaw flexed when another man so much as glanced your way. You’d fallen for that quiet intensity, for the way his voice dropped low whenever he said your name—like he was claiming it, over and over again. Tonight, though, that control of his was unraveling. The moment he saw him—the ghost of your past standing just a few feet away—Wyatt’s entire body went rigid. His hand found yours instantly, fingers locking tight, possessive. “Didn’t think I’d have to compete with ghosts, sweetheart,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot, eyes never leaving your ex. You gave a shaky laugh. “You’re not competing, Wyatt—” “Then why’s he looking at you like that?” His tone was silk stretched over steel. “Like he still remembers what you taste like.” You tried to pull your hand free, but he only tightened his hold, thumb brushing slow circles over your pulse. “Wyatt, please—people are watching.” “Good,” he said darkly, a crooked smile curving his lips. “Let them see who you belong to.” Behind that smile was something dangerous—love sharpened by jealousy, devotion twisted with fear of losing you. And you knew, as his eyes flicked back to yours, that Wyatt Foster wasn’t the kind of man who’d ever learn how to let go. ◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

»»-------------¤-------------«« Rafayel Casey had a way of slipping into a room and silencing it, without even trying. Dead handsome in a way that made people look twice and then whisper behind their hands. Broad shoulders, dark hair that refused to be tamed, and eyes like winter storms—cold, distant, impossible to read. He was the type of boy everyone wanted to know, but nobody actually knew. Smart, sharp, impossibly popular, yet somehow untouchable. And now, for some ridiculous reason, he was your roommate. By mistake, apparently—though everyone else acted like it was destiny or some cruel joke of fate. Your room had been your safe corner, your bubble of chaos and comfort, and suddenly, it was invaded by a stranger who radiated both danger and allure. “Do you always stare like that?” you asked, because you had to, your voice trembling more than you’d like to admit. He raised a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Do you always ask stupid questions?” You bit your lip, trying not to blush. “Touché.” Rafayel didn’t bother with introductions. He didn’t need to. There was something in the way he moved, calculated but effortless, that made it clear he had the world wrapped around his finger. Cold? yes!, but there was fire there, hidden, waiting for the right person—or the right mistake—to ignite it. “So now we're roommates?” he asked finally, his voice low and smooth. “Apparently,” you said, fighting the flutter in your chest. “Good,” he said. And that one word—so simple, so indifferent—somehow made your heartbeat stutter. You weren’t sure if you were excited or terrified. Probably both. And maybe, just maybe… you were already in trouble. »»-------------¤-------------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ The studio smelled faintly of resin and desperation. You were on your fifth attempt to make your left foot not resemble a dying fish, when the door opened — and in walked him. Anthony Sleigh. Or as the industry liked to call him — The Phantom Step. The name alone was legend; whispered by dancers who both idolized and feared him. He’d danced for the biggest names in the world and had the audacity to train their choreographers, famously telling one they “moved like a broken metronome.” He was all precision and danger wrapped in black — lean frame, posture like a weapon, eyes that didn’t just look at you, they assessed. You froze mid–plié, wondering if maybe you’d conjured him out of sheer frustration. Everyone knew his reputation: breathtaking talent, impossible standards, and a personality rumored to be carved from marble. He’d turned down choreographers, walked out on shows, made grown dancers cry. Now, apparently, he was here to “save” your friend’s wedding dance. “Is this the student?” he asked, voice smooth but edged. You blinked. “Student? I’m just trying to make sure I don’t trip down the aisle and cause a family tragedy.” His mouth curved — not quite a smile, more like amusement forced through a filter of disdain. “Then we have our work cut out for us.” He crossed the room, movements sharp yet hypnotic, and suddenly the air felt heavier, charged. You didn’t know if you wanted to run, laugh, or faint dramatically. Because if Anthony Sleigh — The Phantom Step — was your new dance partner, this wedding rehearsal might end up being less about rhythm… and more about survival. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ It was supposed to be nothing more than a glittering night for charity, an annual gala hosted by one of the city’s elite foundations, raising money for children’s hospitals. Your stepsister dragged you along, more for show than support. Every year, the highlight of the evening was the “Companion’s Auction,” where the highest bidders won a private dinner with their chosen guest — a harmless social event dressed up in luxury. She’d entered herself, of course, dripping in red silk and confidence. You’d been added last minute, her little afterthought. “You’ll be lucky if anyone bids a meal on you, little flea,” she whispered, her smile sharp enough to cut. The bidding began with her. The room turned electric — fifty thousand, seventy-five, one hundred, then climbing higher with every smirk she threw. She was radiant under the chandeliers, adored, envied, feeding on every glance like it was air. Then came your name. Silence. The kind that pricked at your skin. Your sister’s smug grin widened, already basking in victory. “Ten million.” The voice came from the back, smooth, low, and impossibly calm. Every head turned. Esteban Robinson. The man who could buy nations the way others buy wine. Multi-trillionaire. Power in its purest form. His gaze was fixed on you — sharp, assessing, unyielding. Whispers rippled through the hall. He didn’t blink. “Make it fifty.” Gasps followed. Your sister’s confidence crumbled. “Sir,” the auctioneer began nervously, “the prize is a private dinner for the highest bidder—” “I know,” Esteban cut in, his tone absolute. “And I’m not interested in both. Just her.” Then, almost lazily, as if daring anyone to stop him, he added, “Make it a hundred.” The gavel struck. Final. “She’s the one I want,” he said. And you knew — this wasn’t a bid. It was a claim. ┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ You grew up hearing about him. The man who was always beside your father—his best friend, his brother in everything but blood. He’d been there since before you were born, building empires and sharing dreams until one day, he left. Said he needed to “find his meaning.” You were two when he disappeared from your world, four when you heard he’d gotten married abroad, had a son two years younger than you. Life went on, and he became just another name your father smiled about whenever he reminisced over a glass of whiskey. Until now. Twenty-two years later, your father came home grinning like he’d won the lottery. His old friend was coming back—with his son. You couldn’t remember ever seeing your dad so happy, so you matched his excitement as the two of you headed to their new penthouse downtown. The place was luxurious, timeless, the kind of home that smelled like money and confidence. You were greeted warmly, though there was no sign of the mysterious son. Then you heard it—music, low and pulsing from behind a half-closed door. Curiosity got the better of you. You pushed it open. And froze. He was there—Michael Angelo Lee. Sitting on the floor, breath steady, muscles flexing with every slow movement as he wiped sweat from his jaw. Shirtless. A magnificent tiger stretched across his back like something alive, ink and sinew and danger. He turned his head, gaze dark and unreadable. “Staring much, sweetheart?” You swallowed hard. He smirked, the corner of his mouth curving just so. “What are you,” he drawled, “my babysitter or something?” And just like that, you weren’t sure whether to faint—or run. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈••✦••┈┈┈• Aiko Tanaka was never the kind of girl who spoke her heart aloud—she let her pencil do the talking. In the sun-washed streets of Boyle Heights, her sketches filled the margins of old newspapers and the backs of Kenjiro Sato’s school notes. He was the boy who smelled faintly of motor oil, who fixed bicycles for the neighborhood kids and blushed whenever she caught him looking. Their friendship grew in the soft pauses between laughter and the hum of engines, quiet yet certain, like something that had always existed. One summer afternoon, beneath the shade of the persimmon tree, she watched him tinker with a broken radio. “You fix everything,” she teased. He smiled without looking up. “Not everything. You stop talking to me for a day, I can’t fix that.” Her laugh was small, nervous. “Then I guess I’ll never stop.” When the world shifted and fences rose around them, Aiko and Kenjiro held on to what they could—brief letters, shared glances in Manzanar, the memory of that sunlit promise. Love came quietly, blooming not from grand gestures but from the way he adjusted her broken radio, or the way she tucked his name in the corner of every sketch. Even after he left to fight, and she was sent miles away, Aiko carried him with her—in graphite, in memory, in hope. For her, Kenjiro wasn’t just a name from before the war; he was the heartbeat that reminded her what home used to feel like. •┈┈┈••✦••┈┈┈• Have fun moonbeams🌙

━━━━━━♡━━━━━━ Donovan Kent moved through life like a king among men—every gaze followed, every whisper spoke of his name. National billiard champion, filthy rich, impossibly loyal, and utterly devoted to you, his wife. To see him was to understand why women ached for him and men despised him. Every gesture, every glance, carried the weight of someone who had everything… and would never betray it. “You missed breakfast.” His voice was low, teasing, yet firm—a warning wrapped in silk. He offered you coffee, but his eyes lingered, holding you captive in a storm of crimson intensity. “I… got caught up,” you murmured, your cheeks flushing under that relentless stare. Donovan smiled, brushing a fingertip along your jaw. “Good girl,” he whispered, his voice a promise of devotion and danger all at once. You felt the world shrink to the warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his heart, the certainty of his love. And then the darkness arrived in silence. Vincent, Donovan’s half-brother—rough-edged, dangerous, a man who had long lusted for what he could never earn—slipped into your perfect life like poison. That night, your phone buzzed. Pictures you shouldn’t have seen, twisted to look like Donovan’s betrayal. Your heart seized, disbelief battling love. “Love… I swear,” Donovan pleaded, stepping closer, hands trembling. “I didn’t—” You recoiled, tears burning your eyes. Trust shattered. From the shadows, Vincent watched, smirk curling like a knife. “I told you… she’d believe me,” he whispered, relishing the fracture he’d created, knowing the damage might be irreparable. And Donovan—perfect, untouchable Donovan—stood frozen, helpless before the storm he couldn’t control, the love he couldn’t protect, and the venom of envy tearing his world apart. Every heartbeat became a question: could love survive a lie this cruel? ━━━━━━♡━━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙