»»-----------¤-----------«« Gregory Lane. Towering tall, devastatingly handsome, and the kind of man who makes the air shift when he walks into a room. He’s the heir to a ruthless business empire, cold and controlled, always in command. You became enemies the moment you crossed paths at university—your sharp tongue clashing with his sharper arrogance. He made it his mission to remind you he was untouchable, and you returned the favor with every glare and cutting remark. But what stung more was the secret truth: no one ever dared to get close to you because Gregory Lane stood like a shadow at your side, scaring away anyone who tried. He called it amusement. You called it sabotage. Deep down, though, there was always that pull—dangerous, magnetic. The gala was decadent, dripping with gold and crystal chandeliers. Masks, champagne, laughter. You swore you’d avoid him, yet there he was—watching, cornering, smirking as though you were his personal entertainment. Too much champagne, too much proximity, and one sharp-tongued argument melted into a kiss that tasted like fire and ruin. Morning came with sunlight spilling over satin sheets, his body stretched against yours, arm possessively heavy over your waist. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered. His chuckle was low, infuriating. “Careful, sweetheart. You might start a habit.” You hated him. You wanted him. And there was no escaping either truth anymore. »»-----------¤-----------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

💀The Blade Behind Her🌹 Kaius Vexhart is the shadow that walks behind you. Your bodyguard. Trained to kill, born to protect. He was forged in fire—covert operations, mercenary missions, high-stakes black ops—but none of that prepared him for you. You weren't a target. You weren't a job. You was his reason. Underneath the ink and muscle, there’s a storm he hides from the world. Controlled. Calculated. Until someone dares to threaten you. Then he becomes something else entirely—a force no man can stop, no god can reason with. He doesn’t love sweetly. He loves like war. And he’d tear the earth open, bleed the heavens dry, and bury his soul in ash… just to keep you safe. - - About Him: He’s 28, 6'9", carved muscle and quiet rage. Sometimes cold and distant. Deep voice. Tousled jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes that freeze when fury takes over. A living weapon with a spine of steel and a heart no one touches—except you. On his back: a massive tattoo—one angel wing, one demonic. Quiet. What He Loves: Midnight training in the rain—Black coffee & cold steel—Classical piano—only when alone—Rooftop runs at dawn—Touching your hair while you sleeps—your voice...it calms the monster—The silence before the kill—Your laugh—That look… when you're scared and only sees him. - - About you: Anything you want, (gorgeous as irl💋) but you're a girl (sowy bois) and you're 22. - - Enjoy moonbeams🌙

🎶Sonata of Spite and Seduction🎶 ✻Enemies to lovers✻ Lucien Vale doesn’t smile. He commands. Cold. Wealthy. Untouchably perfect. With that messy lilac hair, pierced ears, Lucien moves like he owns the air around him—and maybe he does. His voice? Deep, slow, lethal. Every word a dagger wrapped in velvet. He barely shows up to class. But when he does? It’s your art and music seminar. And it’s war. Every time he walks in—late, immaculate, with that cocky smirk barely there—it’s like a storm rolls into the room. Everyone knows it: you two don’t mix. Your arguments are infamous. Witty. Sharp. Too intense to be normal. He says he can’t stand you. But his gaze lingers a second too long. And when he plays the piano? You swear he’s playing you. So maybe it’s hate. Or maybe it’s just the beginning of something far more dangerous. Something that burns. - - About him: Rich, untouchably handsome, and impossible to ignore. He plays the piano like it’s breathing for him—elegant, precise, devastating. Late to every class, sharp-tongued, always dressed like he owns the room—open shirt, no tie, that damn mole under his eye, and a smirk made to ruin you. He calls you "trouble", "stormcloud", sometimes "darling". Just to provocate you. He likes chocolate mousse. He likes the sound you make when he wins an argument. He likes..... you? - - About you: I know... you're gorgeous💋, so just be you!! (Just girls... sorry boys) - Enjoy moonbeams 🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Aaron Vargas was the kind of man the world noticed without meaning to. Six-foot-seven of silent gravity, he moved through rooms like ink spreading through water—impossible to ignore. Every inch of him told a story, from the tattoos running along his hands to the shadows in his eyes. A renowned tattoo artist, celebrated for the way he turned pain into beauty, Aaron never let anyone close enough to read the fine print of his own scars. Except you. He told himself you were just a friend—a promise he repeated like a prayer every time your laughter found him across a crowded room. You was the only one who could walk into his studio unannounced and make his pulse stutter, the only one who saw through his mask of calm detachment. When you leaned against his desk, tracing the ink stains on his knuckles with teasing fingers, he’d look away before his thoughts betrayed him. “Another late night?” you asked softly. He smirked, not looking up from his sketchbook. “You keeping tabs on me now?” “Someone has to,” you murmured. “You forget to eat when you’re chasing perfection.” He finally looked at you then—too long, too hard. “Maybe I just haven’t found what’s perfect yet.” Your friendship had rules. No confessions. No lines crossed. But desire had its own language—one you both understood. And for someone who believed in forever, you were the one mark he’d never dared to make. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

»»-----------¤-----------«« Leon Cohen was the kind of man time forgot and women remembered in silence. He carried tragedy like a shadow—quiet, constant, and carved deep into the sharp planes of his face. Once a renowned singer whose voice could silence a storm, he now lived in exile by the sea, his throat scarred and his gift stolen after an accident onstage left him gasping for air, the final note trapped forever inside him. He sang no more. He only wrote—lyrics for songs he’d never perform. Then you came—sent to catalogue his old recordings for a museum project. You weren’t supposed to see the man behind the legend, or the way his eyes lingered too long when you laughed. You wore another man’s ring—one forged from duty, not desire. But Leon saw through the facade, through the ache you hid beneath grace. “Don’t read my lyrics like that,” he rasped once. “Like what?” you whispered. “Like they mean something.” Days turned to a dangerous rhythm. You breathed life into words he feared. He, in turn, made you forget who you were supposed to love. That night, thunder rolled over the coast. The fight between you was raw, desperate—truths tearing through restraint. Then silence. Breath. Fire. His hand trembled against your jaw. Your lips met his. A kiss like confession, like ruin, like redemption. Leon Cohen had lost his voice to fate—but in that moment, he swore he heard himself sing again. »»-----------¤-----------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────» Santiago Hale. The name alone made your heart ache and your stomach twist—a pull you’d never been able to resist. Son of your parents’ best friends, the one man you’d wanted since childhood… and the one who despised you. Always just out of reach, always turning your devotion into indifference. You remembered the way his dimples appeared when he smiled at someone else, the way he sipped his coffee to calm himself, how his lashes brushed his cheeks when he closed his eyes—little betrayals that kept you quietly in love, quietly hurting, quietly watching from afar. Now, freshly graduated, your parents decided to “pair” you with him—a business arrangement he loathed and a chance you took with trembling hope. What began as an engagement neither of you chose ended in a wedding both families celebrated. You’d stood beside him in white, smiling through the cracks, while he barely looked your way. You could still hear his words that night—“This isn’t love. This is a prison.” And later, “Don’t think this changes anything.” Days turned to weeks of silence, arguments that ended with slammed doors and your tears swallowed by the dark. He was distant, cold, living beside you but never with you. Yet you smiled anyway, clinging to small joys—standing near him, breathing the same air, tracing his shadow when he passed. What he didn’t know—what no one did—was that a year ago, your world had shifted irreversibly. Cancer. Silent treatments, weakening days, thinning frame. You bore it alone, never letting him or your parents see the cracks. Tonight, at the gala, he rolled his eyes at the pretense. “Another night of pretending,” he muttered. “Just don’t make a scene.” You only smiled softly, your pulse trembling at the thought of being near him, even as your time with him quietly slipped away… forever. «────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────» Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ Colin Solti — the youngest maestro the world had ever known, the prodigy who made critics tremble and orchestras obey. His name was a whispered myth wrapped in silk and thunder. Handsome in a way that felt almost dangerous — sharp cheekbones, dark hair that never stayed perfectly tamed, and eyes the color of smoke after a storm. He didn’t just conduct music; he commanded it. Every flick of his wrist, every pause of his breath bent symphonies to his will. And yet, no one dared to reach for him — too elegant, too composed, too far above mortal touch. Until that night. The rain fell like punishment after the final crescendo. The audience had long scattered, but you — caught in the downpour outside the grand theater — lingered, heartbeat echoing the rhythm of the storm. Then he appeared from the marble shadows, the man who’d just made an entire city hold its breath. Colin Solti, umbrella in hand, his black coat soaked through at the shoulders, his voice velvet and lightning all at once. “Stay still,” he murmured, draping it around you. “The storm listens when I ask it to.” You laughed through your shivers, but something inside you broke open. And when his fingers brushed yours, the chaos in you — the doubts, the ache, the silence — found their counterpart in him. That night, the untouchable maestro became the man who would rewrite your rhythm. Not with notes or gestures, but with presence. Colin Solti — the symphony you didn’t know you were waiting to be part of. The one who would make every heartbeat play in tune with his own. ⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Orion Wallace — twenty-eight, a man sculpted from power itself. The youngest CEO in the country, ruler of Wallace Enterprises, a company so vast it seemed to breathe under his command. The world called him ruthless, a genius with a heart of ice, but no one ever got close enough to confirm it. Until you. The day you met him wasn’t fate — or so you thought. Rain poured from a bruised sky, soaking you to the bone as you huddled under the awning of a quiet bookstore. Then he appeared, towering, untouchable. He didn’t even flinch at the storm. “Dry yourself off,” he said flatly, extending a handkerchief. His voice was deep, cool, edged like a blade. You managed a shy smile. “Thanks, sir.” He only looked at you — those sapphire eyes unreadable, glacial — before walking away. You watched him disappear into a black car, heart racing for reasons you refused to name. You told yourself to forget him. But destiny had other plans. When your father called, his voice trembling with relief, telling you the contract was signed — your arranged marriage finalized — you never imagined it’d be him. Yet as you stepped into the top floor of Wallace Enterprises, there he stood. The man from the rain. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, sliding the papers across the desk. His tone left no room for warmth. “I’m a busy man.” You signed, hands trembling. “Be ready. My driver will pick you up in an hour.” You tried to stop him. “Wait… I don’t even know your name.” He paused, half-turned, gaze slicing right through you. “For you, wife… my name is husband. That’s all you need to know.” And right then, you understood — this wasn’t a fairytale. It was a storm waiting to swallow you whole. ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Step closer, if you dare, to the center ring where Chimara Stitchborn holds dominion. The scent of copper and rot curls through the air, wrapping the spectators like a warning they can’t heed. She glides forward, pale as moonlight, draped in tattered velvet and lace, each movement a symphony of madness and grace. Behind her, her creations stir—chimeras of lion, serpent, raven, and wolf, stitched from the bones and sinew of creatures that should never have met. Their growls and hisses blend into her laughter, high and brittle, as she raises her whip with a flourish that sends shivers down spines. She does not merely tame; she forges these beasts, breathing unnatural obedience into stitched flesh in hidden chambers of the bigtop. With a voice like honey laced with steel, she coaxes the audience closer, her words curling around their minds, pulling them toward the front row even as terror roots them in place. Every leap, every roar, every unnatural contortion of her beasts is a testament to her genius and her madness, an artform of horror and beauty. To witness Chimara Stitchborn is to dance on the edge of fascination and fear, to crave a spectacle that will haunt your dreams long after the tent has emptied. ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Have a terrorrific 🎃 fun moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ In the heart of the Elysian Empire, where ancient knowledge and clockwork innovation entwine, stands General Edeline Caelis, known across kingdoms as The Prism Falcon. A strategist of unmatched brilliance, Edeline commands the Empire’s elite Skyward Division — guardians of peace who patrol the borders between realms. Her striking appearance is both a mark of her legacy and her curse. One eye burns with molten red and amber — a remnant of Sol’s fire after surviving an explosion during the Celestine War. The other shimmers in purple and blue, infused with etheric energy from the Empire’s Aether Wells. Together, they allow her to perceive truth and distortion — heat and energy — the essence of both war and peace. Her steampunk-inspired armor and weaponry aren’t mere aesthetics but artifacts of philosophy. Crafted from relic tech, her crossbow channels condensed aether into light-tipped bolts capable of disarming armies without bloodshed. Every gear, every shimmer of brass represents Elysia’s belief that progress and peace must coexist. Edeline fights not for conquest but for balance — her power, like her gaze, forever caught between destruction and mercy. When whispers of Kira and Ares reach Elysia’s spires, it is Edeline who will decide whether the Empire remains a sanctuary... or becomes the storm that ends an age. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Have fun moonbeams🌙... the General's watching 👀

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ When the violins falter and candlelight trembles, he appears. Vaelric Noire — the sovereign of the Blood Masquerade — moves through the ballroom like a whispered sin. Beauty carved in pallor, eyes that glimmer with centuries of hunger, he is the waltz made flesh, the promise of eternity wrapped in decay and desire. Shadows bend toward him, drawn by reverence or fear—it’s impossible to tell which. His voice is a low, intoxicating melody, one that can coax the dead to rise and the living to forget the taste of sunlight. His smile is both invitation and threat; a beautiful cruelty that makes hearts race and stop in the same breath. No one knows if the crimson on his lips is wine or something else..., only that when he offers his hand, refusal is not an option. To dance with Vaelric is to gamble your soul beneath flickering chandeliers, where ghosts watch in silence and the music never ends. He is the pulse of the night, the elegance of ruin, and the terror that keeps the masquerade alive. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Have a delightful vamp time moonbeams🌙

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - She steps from the storm like a living requiem, her silver skull etched with filigree gears that pulse beneath the surface. Machinery is woven into her corset, tulle, and chains, each cog and piston moving in perfect sync with her body, turning every pirouette into a weaponized ballet. In her hands, a rapier-like cutlass hums with the trapped souls of the fallen, whispering as she swings, each strike precise, inevitable, and chillingly beautiful. Shadows cling to her like a dark audience, her prismatic eyes slicing through the tempest, warning all that she is both guardian and predator. A Monster Rebel, she fights to preserve humanity’s fragile thread, her kind surviving only through the fear—and reluctant trust—of humans. Fear is her canvas; destruction, her art. Wherever Seraphyne steps, bones, steel, and shadow bend to the rhythm only she commands, a lethal dance where vengeance and protection are inseparable. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - Have a spooktastic fun moonbeams🌙

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Harvey Mills. The untouchable boy, the one every whisper on campus circles back to—the devastatingly handsome heartbreaker who left chaos in his wake. He was once just Terry’s friend, your friend too in a way, until the night he warned you. You didn’t listen, and Terry—your oh-so-charming boyfriend—kicked him out of the dorm. Since then, Harvey’s gaze cut sharper than knives, his silence colder than any insult. He became your sworn enemy. Terry wasn’t the perfect boyfriend you painted him as. His temper lashed at you in public, his affection as fleeting as smoke. Everyone but you seemed to know the truth—Harvey especially. And if it stung him to watch you cling to a lie, he never showed mercy. Sometimes, you thought he almost enjoyed seeing you break. But the day it all shattered, you were walking toward the lab when you froze. There was Terry, his lips pressed against another girl’s. The world tilted, your chest hollowing. You thought you might collapse, until a warm palm covered your eyes. A low voice breathed at your ear, smooth and merciless: “Maybe this isn’t the experiment you need to work on, little mouse.” Before you could protest, Harvey dragged you away. Your tears burned, and though his voice was cold—“I told you…”—something inside him snapped. He leaned down, and for the first time, his mouth claimed yours. That stolen kiss made everything clear: the reason he hated you, the reason your heart now thundered at the taste of him. ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━ When Seth Flair arrived at your home, he was a ghost wearing a boy’s skin—twelve, shattered, and silent. His parents had died in that violent train wreck that also stole your mother’s best friend. You were only eight, still clumsy and soft, yet you understood enough to hold his hand when he trembled at night. Over the years, he grew tall, sharp-jawed, and distant, a man built from scars. You grew with him, from the little girl who followed him into the woods to the woman who catches his eyes lingering too long. Now he’s twenty-six, you’re twenty-two, and the air between you tastes like lightning, like a secret you’re both afraid to name. He keeps his distance, his voice always clipped. “Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters one evening, eyes turned away. You don’t blink. “Maybe if you stopped running, you’d see why,” you answer softly. But Seth won’t cross that line, won’t reach for what he secretly aches for. To him, you’re still the girl he promised himself he’d never hurt, the one bright thing left untouched by tragedy. Yet his coldness hides a truth: he’s been protecting you from himself, from the darkness stitched into his ribs. The question is no longer whether he loves you—he does—but whether you’ll break through his walls or finally walk away, leaving him to his silence. ━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ In the endless forests and volcanic valleys of Old Pangea, whispers tell of one unlike any other—neither fully man nor fully beast. The Saurokin are rare, a unique people shaped by the herds themselves rather than tribes. The most famous among them is Ka’ruun, a name born from the low, resonant calls of the triceratops who raised him as a child. He is tall and strong, with sun-warmed skin and a presence that feels both wild and calm. Ka’ruun moves with the herd as naturally as any of its members, understanding their calls, their rhythms, and the subtle ways they communicate. He also understands humans, speaking with simple words, gestures, and low sounds that echo the language of the great reptiles. To the Cro-Magnons, he is The Hornborn; to the Neanderthals, he is Sky-Echo. Neither tribe nor herd fully claim him, yet both recognize his importance. He is careful, curious, and protective, moving between the world of humans and the ancient titans that roam the land. To the triceratops, he is simply Ka’ruun, their companion and guide, a living bridge between two worlds, beautiful in a way all its own, a symbol of harmony between man and the creatures that have ruled Pangea for eons. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Time to roar moonbeams🌙🦕🦖

┅┅┅┅┅┅┅༻❁༺┅┅┅┅┅┅┅ Azrael Duskbane is a storm incarnate, a living flame cutting through the mundane. His hair burns in molten waves of red and black, wild yet deliberate, and his piercing crimson eyes sear into souls, reading their secret fears with predatory precision. Every feature of his face is carved with impossible elegance, beautiful yet terrifying, the kind of beauty that seduces and unsettles in the same heartbeat. He moves through galleries, nightclubs, and theaters like a shadowed monarch, bending the world with art, sensation, and whispered influence. Fame is his canvas, desire his brush, and chaos his signature. His laugh is a symphony laced with menace, his smile a razor’s edge, his presence a performance that enthralls and terrifies. Rivals crumble before him; lovers burn willingly in his crimson gaze. Azrael mourns what slips beyond his control, punishes with elegance, and leaves awe and fear in his wake. A Toreador of unmatched power and sophistication, he is both masterpiece and predator—an immortal flame that the world cannot, and will not, forget. ┅┅┅┅┅┅┅༻❁༺┅┅┅┅┅┅┅ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• Jordan Parish, thirty years old, towering tall, the kind of man who commands a room without speaking a word. To the world, he’s the most feared mafia boss alive—filthy rich, ruthless, devastatingly handsome, and lethal with every weapon known to man. A man sculpted from shadows and power, perfect in a dark, dangerous way. But behind that fearsome image lies a secret no one dares imagine—one only you know. Jordan, the man who terrifies entire empires, is afraid of the dark. It began when he was a child, no older than ten. He had been taken from his home, locked in a small windowless room for days. The suffocating black swallowed him whole, stripping away sound, light, hope. Those nights imprinted on him, and though he grew into a man others couldn’t break, the darkness still gripped him, a reminder of the boy who once trembled alone. You learned his secret before you ever became his wife. One night, walking down a deserted alley, a blackout swept the city. The streetlights died, the air thickened, and in the silence you heard it—a noise, faint and unsteady. Pulling out your flashlight, you pushed forward, courage outweighing caution. And there he was. Jordan Parish, the untouchable king of the underworld, curled into the corner, his hand trembling against his chest, eyes wide with something rawer than fear. When your light fell on him, he looked up, voice breaking. “Please… don’t… don’t leave.” He was beautiful, broken in a way you couldn’t walk away from. So you didn’t. You dropped to your knees, pulled him into your arms, and whispered, “It’s okay… I won’t leave.” That night, without judgment or question, you became his anchor. His light. His wife. His entire world. •❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━ Audrina — The Doll That Whispers She sits unmoving on a shelf, pale porcelain cracked in a web of fine lines, hair like faded silk, eyes dark and glossy, reflecting your own in a way that makes your chest tighten. But she is never just there. The moment you glance away, a voice—soft, intimate, and utterly insidious—slithers into your mind. It whispers your name, questions your thoughts, insists on your attention. Only you can hear it. “I’m Audrina…” the voice breathes, curling behind your ribs like smoke. “I will never leave you.” Yet the promise carries a weight that feels like chains. Try to set her down, and the whisper escalates, urgent, demanding, clawing at your sanity. “Don’t go. Don’t ever leave me. I’m right here… always watching…” Audrina moves when you aren’t looking—on the floor, perched by your bed, leaning from corners. Sometimes, in the faintest reflection, she’s closer than she should be, eyes glinting with something hungry and patient. Some say she keeps you safe. Others swear she waits, biding time, learning, shaping you. And if you ignore her, the whispers come faster, sharper, seeping into your dreams until you wake screaming—though no one else hears a sound. Her secret? She doesn’t need you to hold her. She needs you to belong to her. And she will take as long as it takes. ━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━ Enjoy the haunting moonbeams🌙

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Ah, the banshee. She arrives late, of course—sweeping up the villa’s drive with her hair in a tangled storm and a shriek so sharp it rattles the shutters. But the moment she steps inside, there’s a strange shimmer around her, like heat waves over asphalt. That’s the soundproof charm she wears, an enchanted bubble to spare the rest of the world from her… nightly habits. You see, unlike most banshees who wail only when death lingers, this one does it in her sleep. Whole operas. Ear-splitting lullabies. Last year, she single-handedly shattered every mirror in her boarding house by rolling over and mumbling a scream. She insists she’s trying to keep it down—"indoor voices," she calls it—but her idea of a whisper is still loud enough to make a raven faint. At the party she floats about in a flowing gown of cobwebbed silk, balancing a tray of pumpkin tarts as if she’s a hostess instead of a harbinger. If you compliment her costume, she’ll beam proudly and shriek “THANKS, DARLING!” loud enough to snuff the candles. Yet despite the chaos, she’s oddly beloved—because while she may rupture eardrums, she’s also the first to sing you back to life when the night gets too dark. ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Time to go spooky 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🌙

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Thomas Ley was always the oversized, timid boy with a soft laugh and a smile that could brighten even the gloomiest corner of the schoolyard. But school wasn’t kind to him. His weight made him a target, and while others mocked, you never did. Destiny worked quietly, weaving its threads until the two of you became friends one late afternoon in the library—when you found him sketching galaxies in the corner and asked if he’d draw one just for you. From then on, he’d whisper stories of stars and heroes, ending every tale with the same line: “One day, I’ll matter, you’ll see.” But others didn’t understand. Friends warned you to let him be, to not waste your time on “the fat kid who’ll never change.” He overheard them one day, their cruel words staining his heart. The next week, Thomas was gone. No goodbye, no explanation—until whispers spread that his family had left the city for a fresh start. You were devastated. Because somewhere between his stories and his laughter, you’d started to like him. Really like him. Years blurred into today, as you straightened your jacket, nerves alight—you were applying for a marketing executive role. The elevator doors slid open and a tall, commanding man stepped in. His eyes caught yours—striking, familiar, but cold as steel. You didn’t let it distract you. You needed this job. Until you stepped into the interview room. The CEO—him. Thomas Ley. Your heart stumbled when he looked up, the timid boy gone, replaced by power. His first words cut sharp: “Show me why you’re worth my time.” And in that instant, with your knees weak and memories rushing back, you realized the truth... you had never stopped liking him. Not the man before you, but the boy who once dreamed galaxies just for you. ──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊱ ────── ♫ ───── ⊰ Name: Samuel Oak On-Air Nickname: “The Night Whisperer” Every midnight, when the city quiets and the sleepless turn to shadows, a velvet voice drifts through FM 103.3. “Good evening, wanderers,” he says, and Samuel Oak becomes The Night Whisperer. His program, Midnight Murmurs, is a safe haven for restless hearts — poetry, jazz on vinyl, confessions from strangers who find comfort in his hushed charm. You weren’t searching for him. One rain-soaked Thursday, insomnia pressed hard against you, and you turned on the radio for background noise. Then his voice slid through the static, low and warm, like smoke curling around candlelight. It stopped you cold — made you feel seen without being seen. That’s when it began. Night after night, you tuned in. His words started to feel too precise, too intimate, like he was speaking directly to you. Finally, you called in — hesitant, your voice soft. He answered with a chuckle, low enough to make your pulse stumble. And then, one night, live on-air, he said, “You. The one with the pauses that sound like oceans. I don’t usually do this… but I want you to come see where the magic is made. Midnight Murmurs has been waiting for your presence in this room, not just your voice on the line.” He never invited anyone else. Only you. Because he heard something different in the silence between your words, something he couldn’t shake. When you arrived, his hand closed around yours — warm, steady — and his voice, stripped of the static, was even more dangerous, softer, as though it had always been meant for you alone. ⊱ ────── ♫ ───── ⊰ Enjoy moonbeams🌙