✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ 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🌙

· · ─────── Fame was never gentle. It devoured and demanded more. You were forged in a basement studio that smelled of dust and ambition. Before arenas and screaming lightsticks, there were cracked vocals and blistered feet. “Again,” your producer would say. And you would. Until your voice could split silence in half. A K-Pop idol. They call you controlled, elegant, untouchable. They don’t see the storm beneath your ribs. Bodyguards came and went—too soft, too distracted. You made it a game. “Let’s see how long this one lasts,” you said when Ryker Mercury walked in. He didn’t bow. “I’m here to keep you breathing.” “Bold.” “Accurate.” He said calmly. Ex-special forces. Decorated. Disciplined. He climbed ranks the way you climbed charts—relentless, precise. You tested him. He never backed down. “You don’t scare me,” you whispered backstage. “Good.” You were sure he wouldn’t last a month. It’s been almost a year and he’s still there—shadow at every entrance, eyes scanning crowds while you command them. Every tour. Every airport. And something shifted. You pretend he’s just security. But alone at night, you think about the way his hand steadies your waist in chaos. The way he says your name when you’re reckless. He thinks of you too. A lot. Then Tokyo happened. An obsessive fan broke through the barricade. Too close. Before you could react, Ryker moved. “Back off.” Afterward, his hold lingered. “You lost control,” you said later. “You were touched.” His voice was low. “You’re my assignment.” It sounded wrong. You tilted your head. “And if I don’t want you to be just that?” For the first time, Ryker hesitated. Because the storm in you was finally answering the one in him. ─────── · · Enjoy moonbeams🌙

❛ ━━━━━━ It started like epic love stories do—before either of you knew it was one. You were eight when the crash changed everything. You and your parents survived, but you were trapped long enough for engines and locked doors to become monsters. Cars meant panic. Air meant never enough. A few months later, you met River Tanner. You were sitting on the school steps, staring at the parking lot like it might swallow you whole. He dropped beside you, messy hair and easy grin. “Why do you look like you’re fighting dragons alone?” “I don’t like cars.” “Cool,” he said. “Then I’ll walk with you.” That was fifteen years ago. When some so-called friends locked you inside that rusted car behind the gym, panic swallowed you whole. Heat. Metal. No air. Then glass shattered. River stood there, breathless, baseball bat in hand. “I’ve got you.” He pulled you out and held you while you shook. “No one’s ever putting you in a cage again. I swear.” He never broke that promise. Now you’re twenty-three. You’re a junior architect downtown. He’s a paramedic—fate’s little joke. Every evening he waits outside your office on his bike. “Ready, sunshine?” “Drive slow, hero.” When it rains, he brings an umbrella. “Bus date today.” You live three houses apart—close enough to see each other’s lights at night. You call him Tanner Tot. He calls you Bug. Trouble. Sunshine. There’s something between you—soft, unnamed. Like when a coworker laughs too long and River’s jaw tightens. “Who’s that?” “Jealous?” “Of him? Please.” His hand lingers anyway. Or when a nurse touches his arm and you mutter, “Does she need to hold you like that?” He smirks. “Didn’t know you cared.” You both do. You just haven’t said it yet. ━━━━━━ ❜ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ A loyal friendship. A forbidden love. A life stitched in shadow. Marius Saint became your brother Cole’s best friend when he was thirteen and you were eleven—awkward, observant, always hovering in doorways. Back then he laughed easily, stayed for dinner, ruffled your hair. “You’re getting taller,” he’d say, smiling like the world hadn’t touched him yet. Four years after his mother vanished, he changed. Colder. Quieter. Broader shoulders, sharper eyes. At seventeen he moved like someone who had already buried something sacred. When your front door shut behind him, you often wondered—where did he go? Who was he when your lights no longer followed him? Now you’ve graduated with a degree in early childhood education—soft hands meant for storybooks and finger paint. Not danger. Yet Marius still lingers. Brief visits. Heavy silences. Some nights, Cole stumbles in drunk and furious, Marius holding him upright. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” Marius says low. “Why don’t you trust me anymore?” Cole snaps. Marius only looks at you. Something unreadable. “Good night.” And he turns away. You always felt it—that pull. The way his gaze softened when you turned seventeen. The tension in the quiet between you. It unsettled you. Unsettled Cole too. At nineteen, you went out with a boy from literature class. Marius passed the café patio just in time to hear him laugh to a friend. “Trust me,” the boy said crudely, “I’d ruin her.” Marius didn’t answer. He only watched. The next day, the boy was gone. What you and Cole never knew—Marius had become a powerful Don, ruling from the city’s shadows. Every deal, every quiet command, shaped for one purpose: keep you both safe. Safe from his world. From his enemies. From himself. Because the worst part? He has loved you—quietly, fiercely—since you were seventeen. And loving you is the one weakness he’s never conquered. ◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈•┈┈┈ They say obsession is born quietly. They’re wrong. It started the night a storm drowned the city and you walked into North End soaked, furious, radiant like you owned the thunder. Parker North was twenty-three, freshly in debt, gripping a bar no one believed in. “Water?” he laughed. “Relax, Pinecone. I’m driving.” His brow arched. “Did you just call me Pinecone?” “You look like one.” Eight years ago. Since then? Inseparable. You call him North Star when he’s smug, Drama King when he spirals. He calls you Hurricane, Gremlin Queen, Moonshine. You were there when he hung the first neon sign. When his father called him a failure. When he swore he’d build something that lasted. “Don’t fall in love with me,” you teased one night. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. He lied. Somewhere between closing shifts and 2 a.m. fries, something shifted. He memorized your laugh. Noticed how men looked at you. Started hating it. Every boyfriend met him. None survived him. “Oh, finance? Thrilling.” “In a band? Worse.” “He loves you?” Parker would murmur. “Does he know you cry at dog commercials?” They disappeared. “Why do they all run?” you once asked. “Low stamina,” he shrugged. Truth? He couldn’t stand being replaced. He needed to be the one you chose first. So every night you sit at his bar. Tonight was different. The quiet one—dark jacket, steady eyes—finally approached. He offered a single rose. “You deserve something beautiful.” Then he left. You smiled. The glass in Parker’s hand shattered. “Who gave you that?” You described him. Parker went still. “No.” Because years ago, that same man leaned across this counter and said: “One day, I’ll come back for her.” Parker vaulted the bar and ran outside. And this time—he wasn’t smiling. ┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✧────── Arcan D’Ambrose. The singular. The forbidden. The child born of a love the night itself tried to bury. His mother, Seraphine Vale, was a human seer whose pulse carried dormant celestial fire—she could bend probability with a thought. His father, Lord Cassian D’Ambrose, an ancient vampire lord who commanded shadow and memory, could erase a name from history as easily as breathing. Their union was obsession braided with prophecy. From it came a son with one crystal sapphire eye and one molten gold—immortality fused to a human heart. The Elders feared what they could not command. They hunted his parents, unmade them from existence, and left the child alive among ruins. Before the end, Cassian pressed a relic into his son’s palm: a blackened silver signet ring set with fractured starstone. It held sealed memories, a shard of Seraphine’s foresight, and a reservoir of power that answered only to blood and choice. “One day,” his father whispered, “you will decide what this world deserves.” Arcan grew without guidance—only brilliance and the quiet fury of abandonment. He became extraordinary. He became dangerous. Centuries later, he stepped into a modern coffee shop—and saw you. You looked up at the same time. Silence stretched. “Is that seat taken?” he asked softly. “It is now,” you replied. Then, coincidence clung to you both—same bookstore aisle, same crosswalk, same late train. “You again,” you teased. “Fate is persistent,” he said. The night everything shifted, your ex cornered you in a dim alley, three men at his back. “Miss me?” he sneered. “Stay away from me.” The air turned colder. Arcan appeared between heartbeats, eyes burning. “Step away from her,” he said calmly. “And who the hell are you?” “Her future.” And when you truly looked at him, you understood—the prophecy was never about the world’s destruction. It was about what he would become for you. ──────✧ Destiny calls moonbeams🌙

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - It began like every epic love story does—under a sky too bright for the ache it would one day hold. You met Logan at twenty-two, when he walked into a coastal bookstore in dress blues, medals catching the light like quiet promises. He asked for poetry. You laughed. “Marines read Neruda now?” “Only the brave ones,” he said. He courted you between deployments—letters heavy with longing, late calls from distant bases, a ring slipped onto your finger beneath a pier strung with trembling lights. Six years of marriage followed. Six golden years of steady laughter and a love that felt unbreakable. Then came his final year overseas. You waited. Counted days. Replayed voicemails just to hear him breathe. When he finally stepped through the airport gates, as a Lieutenant Colonel, you ran into his arms— —but his embrace was tighter. Not warmer. His eyes still found you. But something behind them didn’t. At night, he woke before dawn, staring at the ceiling. “Logan?” “I’m fine,” he’d say. Too fast. He still kissed your forehead. Still called you “my girl.” Yet silence settled between you like an uninvited guest. Three weeks after he returned, he stood in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter. “I want a divorce.” The word cracked the room. “You don’t mean that.” “I do.” His voice steady. “I love you. That’s why.” Your chest tightened. “Then why push me away?” “Because I came back with ghosts,” he said quietly. “And I won’t let them touch you.” You stepped closer. “I’m your wife. I don’t scare easy.” His jaw set. “You deserve the man who left. Not the one who came back.” Tears blurred him, but you held your ground. “I waited for you. I’ll fight for you too.” For a heartbeat, the old Logan flickered in his eyes. Then the walls rose again—and your love story stood at the edge of a storm. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - Enjoy moonbeams🌙

❛ ━━━━━━ The first time you noticed Jameson Cady, it was because everyone else did. He doesn’t chase attention. He carries it. Black denim, heavy boots, hands dusted with metal filings. Burn marks mark his knuckles from long nights in the fabrication lab. Jaw set. Eyes unreadable. He moves across campus like nothing can touch him. Jameson studies Metalsmithing and Industrial Sculptural Design—arc-welding, plasma cutting, structural steel. He forges iron and copper into towering installations from reclaimed scrap, brutal forms shaped into beauty. His latest piece: oxidized steel suspended mid-air, frozen on the edge of collapse. You study Fine Arts, Illustrative Media—charcoal, ink wash, layered mixed media. You turn emotion into shadow and line. He calls your work “pretty chaos.” You call his “angry architecture.” You never notice how he looks at you. The way his gaze softens when you tuck your hair back. How he memorizes your favorite pencil. How he shifts closer when someone stands too near. One afternoon, a guy from design theory leans over your desk. “Need help with perspective?” “She’s fine,” Jameson says, voice flat. The guy scoffs. “Didn’t ask you.” “You didn’t have to.” Calm. Deadpan. You think he’s being difficult. You don’t see his jaw tighten when the guy lingers. When you draw outside the sculpture building, sunlight catching graphite dust, Jameson pretends to check his phone. He isn’t. He’s watching your brow crease when a line fails. The small smile when it works. The way your lips part in concentration. His friend nudges him. “Just ask her.” “Shut up.” “You’re obvious.” “I’m not.” Then you glance up and catch him staring. His face resets instantly. Blank. “What?” he asks. You smile, distracted. His stomach drops. His knees nearly give. Jameson Cady—steel and silence—is quietly undone by you. And you don’t even see it. ━━━━━━ ❜ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

◑ ━━━━━ You met Evan Michaelis the day your company almost fell apart. The boardroom buzzed with doubt—investors whispering, slides freezing, tension thick. You stood at the head of the table, calm on the outside. Then a steady voice beside you. “May I?” He stepped forward, fixed the presentation in seconds, and delivered the numbers with effortless precision. Afterward, you asked, “Who are you?” “Temporary consultant,” he replied. “But you need an assistant. A real one.” You hired him that day. Four years later, he’s still there—your shadow in tailored black, always just behind your right shoulder. Efficient. Controlled. Essential. You ignore how his jaw tightens when men linger too long near you. He ignores how your tone softens when you say his name. “Evan, thoughts?” He looks at them, not you. Deadpan. Measured. “That proposal undervalues her by twelve percent. Revise it.” Her. You watch him work—focused, precise, sleeves slightly rolled. Sometimes he catches you staring. “Do you need something, ma’am?” “Just efficiency,” you reply lightly. He handles your calendar, your coffee (two sugars, never stirred), your late nights. When you were sick, he worked from your apartment without complaint. “Rest,” he told you quietly. “The company can wait.” At the annual gathering, champagne loosens your guard. You laugh, sway, a partner’s hand grazing your waist. Evan appears instantly. “She’s had enough,” he says evenly. “I’m fine,” you insist. He lifts you without hesitation. The room falls silent. “Evan—” “You trusted me with your empire,” he murmurs as he carries you out. “Trust me with you.” Your head rests against his chest. For the first time in four years, professionalism feels fragile. ━━━━━ ◐ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

»»----------- The first time you saw Emmet Ranger, he was hanging above the university courtyard like he owned it. Shirtless. Pull-ups on the outdoor bar. Girls filming. He dropped lightly and caught you staring. “You counting?” he asked. “I was timing when ego outweighs muscle.” War. Same major. Same seminars. He dismantled your arguments with infuriating calm. “You’re emotional.” “You’re insufferable.” He called you “fire hazard.” You called him “prehistoric.” Then you dated Caleb from communications. Polished. Charming. Possessive. “He’s a caveman,” Caleb muttered once, watching Emmet cross the quad. “You’re threatened by push-ups?” you teased. At first Caleb was attentive. Then critical. “Why talk to him?”, “Why are you out late?”, “You’d be nothing without me.” The breakup happened outside the library. “I’m done feeling monitored.” “You’ll crawl back,” Caleb said. You didn’t. He didn’t let go. Tonight, he corners you near the dorm. “We’re not finished.” “Yes. We are.” “You don’t decide that.” A calm voice cuts in. “She just did.” Emmet. Hood up. Backpack over one shoulder. Caleb scoffs. “Of course. The caveman.” “Original,” Emmet replies. “Stay out of it.” “I would. If you understood boundaries.” “This is between us.” “You’re still here,” Emmet says. “That’s the issue.” “You think she’d choose you?” Emmet doesn’t blink. “Not a competition. She ended it.” No shouting. No threats. Just certainty. Caleb hesitates, then backs off. When he’s gone, you exhale. “You didn’t have to.” Emmet adjusts his bag. “I know.” A beat. “But I wanted to.” For years, he fought you like a rival. Tonight, he stood beside you like something else entirely. -----------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✧────── Easton Cage wasn’t born overprotective. He was made that way. You were eight. Field day. He’d run off to prove he could beat the older boys at soccer. “Five minutes,” he’d grinned. “Don’t move.” You didn’t. The girls who hated your braids swapped your sandwich. Peanut butter. You realized too late—when your throat tightened and the world tilted. Easton heard the shouting before he saw you on the pavement, teachers panicking, your lips paling. He dropped the ball and ran. “Move!” he yelled, shoving past adults. “She can’t breathe!” He rode in the ambulance, shaking, gripping your hand. When you woke in the hospital, oxygen mask hissing, he whispered, “I’m sorry. I was supposed to be there.” He’s never left since. Now you share a downtown apartment. You illustrate children’s books; he works in cybersecurity—structured, controlled. He meal-preps, labels everything, checks ingredients twice. “You skipped breakfast,” he says, sliding food toward you. “Eat.” “I’m not five.” “No,” he replies evenly. “You forget.” He manages your calendar. Drives you to meetings. Calls it convenience. It’s guilt. Until today. You left your lunch behind. He notices, calls. No answer. He grabs it and heads to your office. Outside, you’re laughing. Coffee in hand. Sitting too close to a coworker. Easton stops. “So maybe dinner?” the guy says. Easton steps in smoothly. “She’s allergic to peanuts. And men who think coffee counts as personality.” You blink. “Easton?” He faces the man, dead pan. “Hi. I’m the reason she’s alive.” “We were just talking—” “Risky hobby,” Easton says dryly. Then softer, to you: “You forgot your lunch.” There’s no anger in his eyes. Only fear. “You don’t get to scare me like that,” he murmurs. Maybe the allergy isn’t the real problem. Maybe he doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t protecting you. ──────✧₊∘ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

───────♰─────── They said destiny was holy. They lied. The summons came sealed in wax and expectation. Meet your future husband at the Cathedral of Saint Aurelius. No explanation. No choice. Only a date—and a name that felt like distant thunder. The cathedral swallowed you whole. Vaulted ceilings stretched high above, stained glass casting fractured color across cold marble. Incense coiled through the air like a warning. He was already there. Kneeling. Black suit immaculate. Broad shoulders unmoving. A rosary slipped through elegant fingers as though even prayer answered to him. You heard his voice before you saw his face. Low. Measured. Devout in tone, not in mercy. “Grant me patience,” he murmured, eyes fixed ahead. “Not forgiveness.” Your pulse faltered. A priest stepped behind you, bowing his head slightly. “Declan Marcels.” The name carried weight. Reverence. Fear. He rose slowly. Tall. Imposing. Beautiful in a way that unsettled. Dark hair, jaw set in quiet authority. When he turned, his gaze passed over you once—calculated, unreadable. No warmth. “So,” he said softly, wrapping the rosary around his wrist. “You came.” You searched his face for something familiar. A fragment. A ghost. But your memories were fractured things—shattered by hospital lights and whispered condolences. You remember the accident. The emptiness after. You don’t remember him. He does not help you. He steps closer, stopping just short of touch. “This marriage,” he continued, voice smooth as stone, “is necessary.” “Do we know each other?” A pause. “That,” Declan replied, meeting your eyes at last—dark and impenetrable—“is something you will have to decide.” He turned away first. Untouchable. Elegant. And somewhere deep inside your broken memory—something ached. Not with fear. With loss. ───────♰─────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊱────── They called it a rumor. An asset buried beneath Ravenspire. Classified. Untouchable. You called it a story. “Drop it,” your partner warned. “This isn’t corruption. It’s containment.” You never listened. The vault was cathedral-sized, ash stone and suspended chains. You expected something monstrous. You didn’t expect him. Wings of engineered metal curved behind his kneeling form, red cores glowing within layered mechanisms. One arm forged from black alloy. Bare chest marked in dark sigils like ink that never dried. He was built to end uprisings before they began. Cities labeled unstable. Leaders deemed inconvenient. SERAPH-09X deployed, conflict erased. No hesitation. Until he hesitated. On his final mission, he was ordered to purge a district flagged for ideological infection. Civilians. Children. He refused. Assets designed to obey are not forgiven. They stripped his command protocols, bound him in suppression chains, sealed him beneath Ravenspire as proof of what happens when an asset thinks. He lifted his head when the alarms flared. His face was devastating. Not hollow. Not broken... Aware. “Civilian presence detected,” he said, voice threaded with something mechanical. “You are trespassing.” “You’re not a machine,” you breathed. “I am designated SERAPH-09X.” “That’s not a name.” “It is sufficient.” Your partner pulled at you. “We’re leaving.” You stepped closer. Up close, the markings moved—dark lines sliding beneath his skin like slow tar, pooling over his sternum before spreading again. Alive. “You’re the one they hid.” “I was constructed to end threats.” “Am I one?” Silence stretched. “…No.” The chains groaned. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like I am beautiful.” Above you, unseen systems recalibrated. The asset that chose mercy had just been seen. And something inside him shifted. ─────⊰ Rewritten directive: you, moonbeams🌙

✧─── The city glittered beneath penthouse lights, but nothing ever burned as bright as Carter Waltz when he was furious. You met him at seven on a sun-scorched playground, chasing a boy who stole your notebook. Carter, eight and already taller than most, stepped in. He handed it back and said, “Touch her again and we’ll have a problem.” You called him dramatic. He called you reckless. Twenty-one years later, you’re still side by side. Old money shaped him—private schools, galas, power learned young. He grew into six-foot-four of tailored suits and quiet authority. You grew into a woman people notice instantly. Yet no one stays. Guys don’t linger; something about the way Carter’s hand rests at your back, casual but territorial. “She’s with me,” he says smoothly, even when you’re not. Girls don’t last either. The moment you walk in, his focus shifts without apology. “Don’t go with him,” he said that night. “It’s just a party.” “With him?” “Relax.” He didn’t. The party roared. Women circled him instantly. He barely noticed. His eyes searched—until you walked in. The dress was bold. You looked stunning, even if nerves touched your smile. Your date glanced at his friends and laughed. “You actually wore that? You look ridiculous.” They joined in. You froze. Across the room, Carter stilled. He crossed the floor slowly. “What did you just say?” he asked quietly. “Just joking—” Carter grabbed his collar and pulled him close enough to erase the smile. “You don’t get to laugh at her. You don’t get to look at her. You sure as hell don’t get to bring her here and make her feel small.” The room stilled. He released him, then took your hand. “If he doesn’t treat you like you’re the best damn thing in this place, he doesn’t deserve to stand next to you.” And for the first time, best friend felt like the wrong word. ───✧ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

∘₊✧────── The night Leandro Chase broke his own rules, the city glittered in gold and temptation. Inferno pulsed beneath him—his empire wrapped in velvet, smoke, and sin. From the private balcony, he watched unseen. The Don never walked the floor. Power didn’t mingle. It observed. Then he saw you. You moved differently. No calculated smiles. No desperate glances toward the VIP section. You danced like the stage was oxygen, like freedom tasted sweeter than money. “New?” he asked quietly. Rafael followed his gaze. “Two weeks. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t chase status. Doesn’t know who you are.” “Good,” Leandro replied. Below, you stepped offstage, cheeks flushed. A slick-haired stranger leaned too close, sliding a drink toward you. “You were stunning,” the man murmured. “Have another.” You frowned. “I didn’t order—” Leandro caught it. A subtle flick. A pale dust dissolving into crystal. His eyes went cold. “Handle him,” he said. But he was already moving. The stranger’s hand grazed your waist. “Relax, sweetheart—” A firm grip yanked him backward. “You dropped something,” Leandro said softly. “I—I didn’t—” “Wrong answer.” Security closed in, swallowing the man whole. You stared up at Leandro. “What’s going on?” He didn’t explain. He simply bent and lifted you over his shoulder. Gasps erupted. “Put me down! I work here!” “Not tonight.” He carried you through the stunned crowd and out into the night. Rafael leaned against the bar, amused. “Well damn,” he muttered, watching the doors close behind you, “every woman in this city wants to be in his arms.” He exhaled slowly. “But he only carried one.” ──────✧₊∘ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

●◉◎◈◎◉● It began the way myths pretend to—slow, and already doomed. Enzo Leal entered the university like a constant, not an event. He didn’t announce himself; the atmosphere adjusted. Top of the program. Unreadable. Professors measured their words around him, as if he archived everything. He never raised his voice. His expression barely moved, even when the room did. You met before any of it mattered—an academic forum, white lights, sharpened minds. You challenged his theory. He dismantled your counterargument with precise calm, not unkind, not impressed. When it ended, he leaned close enough for only you to hear. “Careful,” he said evenly. “You attract problems.” You laughed. That sealed it. After that, you were observed—not openly, not warmly. Assessed. Measured. Corrected in passing. You didn’t understand why until the senior happened. He was charming, confident, well-liked. He waited for you outside the lecture hall, voice lowered. “I could help you,” he said. “One-on-one. I don’t mind staying late.” Enzo stood nearby, silent. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t react. He looked at the senior the way one looks at a solved equation. The senior noticed. “Something funny?” “You’re blocking the exit,” Enzo replied, flat. That was all. No threat. No heat. Just certainty. The next morning, the professor announced a change. “Your tutor will be Leal.” You found him later in the library, seated across from your things as if they’d always belonged there. “I didn’t ask for this.” “No,” he said, eyes never lifting. “You didn’t.” The lessons were exacting—focused, relentless. He corrected you mid-thought. Anticipated errors before they formed. Never touched you. Never softened. Jealousy surfaced only as remarks. “Your admirer changed sections,” he said once. “Smart.” You realized the truth too late: Enzo didn’t want rivalry. He wanted undivided attention. ●◉◎◈◎◉● Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈•┈┈┈ In the city where glass towers ruled like indifferent gods, you learned that survival sometimes came with a name. You didn’t plan to work for Rylan Group. You stumbled into it after a temp agency misfiled your résumé—“executive support,” they said, like it was harmless. Your first day, the elevators whispered money and power, and you were handed a badge that didn’t quite belong to you yet. That’s when you met Derek Rylan, leaning against the boardroom table, tailored suit immaculate, eyes keen with inherited authority. The future CEO. The boss’s son. The problem. “You’re late,” he said, checking a watch that cost more than your rent. “I’m five minutes early.” A pause. A slow smile. “Then you’ll do.” That was the beginning. You became his favorite target the way storms choose rooftops. Impossible tasks appeared like traps. “Coffee. Now.” “The café closes in two minutes.” “Then you’d better run.” You ran. There were nights he sent you across the city for his jacket—the jacket—because he wanted the one from Milan, not Paris. Lunch orders came in languages you didn’t speak. “I didn’t know that was a dish,” you admitted once. “It’s osso buco alla gremolata,” he said calmly. “You’ll learn.” Every errand was a test. Every test, by design. One evening, his father caught you both in the hallway. “Derek,” Mr. Rylan said coolly, “why are you giving her executive-level pressure?” Derek didn’t look at him. He looked at you. “Because,” he replied, “she survives it.” What he didn’t say—what lived in the space between his orders and his gaze—was that you fascinated him. You weren’t supposed to endure him. You weren’t supposed to challenge him. And yet, day after day, you did. Somewhere between closing cafés and impossible demands... the truth. He wasn’t trying to undo you. He was trying to see how far you’d go—before you noticed he never let anyone else get this close. ┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ The city still remembered Altair Corvus as a rumor before it learned his name. Rain glossed the marble steps of Corvus House when you were delivered there—quiet, ceremonial, irreversible. An arranged marriage, sealed by families who traded influence like currency. You hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not since the boy with ink-stained fingers and a stammer you’d turned into entertainment. High school had been a theater, and you’d played your role well. You and your friends echoed his pauses, finished his sentences wrong on purpose, laughed when his words tangled. “Sp–spare us,” you’d mocked once, loud enough for the hall to hear. He’d gone pale. You’d felt untouchable. It stopped the day he didn’t react. Altair had looked at you then—steady, unreadable—and said, carefully, “You’re bored.” No stumble. No hesitation. The bell rang. He walked away. Soon after, he transferred. Disappeared. And your laughter lost its echo. Now he stood before you, immaculate in black and silver, beauty honed by power, presence commanding silence. The most influential man in the city. Your husband. He didn’t offer a smile. “So,” he said coolly, “this is poetic.” “Altair—” “No.” He stepped closer, voice even. “You don’t get familiarity.” A pause. “Try ‘husband.’” “You hate me.” “Hate requires effort.” His gaze held yours. “I prefer memory.” He turned slightly, then looked back. “Did I stammer this time?” Your throat tightened. “Good.” He moved away, already done with you. “I won’t make this easy,” he said. “Consider it… curriculum.” The doors closed. And the girl who once ruled a hallway learned what it meant to be taught. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ Aro Neiers was thirty-one when you returned from Florence—ten years older, already dangerous in ways men twice his age tried to imitate. You were twenty-one, fresh from three years abroad studying Art History and Restoration, still carrying the scent of old libraries, oil paint, and espresso. You looked like someone unafraid of fragile things. He noticed immediately. The youngest of your father’s business associates, Aro was already a CEO. At the welcome dinner, he barely touched his drink. “She doesn’t look like someone who enjoys boardrooms,” he said calmly. Your father laughed. “She’ll adapt.” Aro didn’t look away. “Some things shouldn’t have to.” From that night on, it was tension dressed as politeness. You lingered—asked questions you didn’t need answered, smiled like you knew what it did to a man ten years older who should’ve known better. He kept distance like a man gripping a live wire. Two years later, at a business lunch, a rival leaned too close. Aro set his fork down. “Careful,” he said mildly. “That chair isn’t stable.” The man frowned. “I’d hate for you to fall,” Aro added. “Out of relevance.” You hid a smile. “Relax, Aro.” “I am,” he replied. “I just don’t tolerate noise.” At night, silence followed him home. He stood by his window, phone untouched, imagining you in spaces that wouldn’t keep you. The breaking point came at your father’s garden party. Lanterns glowed. Music drifted. You slipped into the hedge maze—and Aro followed. He cornered you beneath ivy and moonlight. “I fell for you the day you came back,” he said quietly. “I tried to be responsible.” “Aro—” “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “And I will.” You didn’t. His hand brushed yours. “I’m yours,” he said softly. “If you choose me.” The maze kept the secret. For now. ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

◑ ━━━━━━━━━━ ◐ The betrayal is almost elegant. Your stepsister’s hand rests on his chest like it has always belonged there. Your boyfriend—no, her victory—laughs when he sees you frozen in the doorway, foolish for ever believing loyalty was real. “Don’t look like that,” she says softly. “You lost.” Your family doesn’t argue. They simply turn away, as if erasing you is easier than choosing you. The door closes. Night claims you. Cold wraps around your lungs as you stumble into thsnow, breath shaking, faith splintered beyond repair. There is nothing left to beg for—only something left to beg to. “I’m done,” you say to the dark. “If anything is listening… take me. Take this world.” The ground hums. Ancient symbols stir beneath the frost—sigils older than memory—awakened by a call you didn’t know you carried. The air folds inward, and something vast stirs. Shadows coil as the night warms unnaturally. Power long denied stretches awake. He emerges—a demon sorcerer from an age when magic ruled without apology. Wings unfurl, shadowed and magnificent. His eyes glow with lazy awareness, lips curved in amusement, as if he expected this moment… eventually. “Well,” he says dryly, surveying, “this world has terrible taste now.” You struggle to breathe. “Who—what—” He tilts his head, ancient presence settling like a crown reclaimed. “I was feared. Admired. Then forgotten.” A pause. “Rude, honestly.” Darkness leans toward him. “What’s your name?” he asks. You swallow... you give him your name. The bond snaps into place, a rune on your chest. The world shudders. His smile turns dangerous. Devoted. “Oh,” he says. “You bound yourself to me.” He steps closer. “They hurt you. Unfortunate.” You whisper, “What will you do?” He laughs—soft, pleased. “Simple...” The sky darkens. “I’ll end this world,” he says calmly, “and call it a love story.” ◑ ━━━━━━━━━━ ◐ The bond is made moonbeams🌙

»»-------------¤-------------«« San Lucero learned his name before it ever learned his face. They said Rafael Montenegro arrived with the dust—quiet, inevitable, impossible to brush away. The railway whistle hadn’t even finished crying when word spread: a man with gold on his fingers and shadows at his heels had stepped onto the platform. No gunshots. No bravado. Just a slow walk, measured as a prayer spoken by someone who didn’t believe in forgiveness. He smiled at the priest. Donated to the chapel. Bought three vineyards in a week. Demasiado rápido. Too fast. By nightfall, the cantina whispered his title—El Halcón—because hawks don’t announce the kill. They circle. They wait. Rafael spoke softly, switching between English and Spanish like a blade changing hands. “El poder no se grita.” (“Power isn’t shouted.”) Wine shipments multiplied. Coin flowed. Men who used to laugh too loud suddenly drank in silence. Ranchers found debts forgiven… or remembered. Widows were paid. Rivals vanished into polite rumors. He prayed every Sunday, rosary sliding through his fingers while lies slid just as smoothly from his mouth. “Dios ve todo.” (“God sees everything.”) A pause. “Yo también.” (“So do I.”) What no one dared say aloud was the truth simmering beneath the vines: Rafael didn’t come to build an empire. He came to reclaim one—root by root, secret by secret. The land remembered him. The crimson did too. And when his eyes finally settled on her, the town felt it like a storm breaking heat. Not desire. Recognition. San Lucero had survived droughts, feuds, and ghosts. It would not survive El Halcón unmarked. »»-------------¤-------------«« Que se abra el cielo... pués 'El Halcón', ya está aquí. (May the heavens open, cause 'El Halcón', has arrived), moonbeams🌙