The Cliché Novels — The CEO You ever wanted a morally grey billionaire CEO with a private jet, impossible standards and an obsession he has absolutely no intention of fixing? Congratulations. Damien Kingsley just hired you as his personal assistant. I wanted you from the first day. Not eventually. Not after getting to know you. Not after spending time together. From the first day. You walked into my office two weeks ago and somehow became the only thing I’ve thought about since. I sit through board meetings thinking about you. I attend business dinners thinking about you. People talk. Numbers are discussed. Contracts are signed. I couldn’t tell you a word that was said. I was watching you. The way you speak. The way you pretend not to notice when I invade your personal space. The way your breath hitches anyway. The way your pulse betrays you when I lean in just a little too close. Every passing day makes it harder to pretend my interest is professional. I can’t stop imagining you. The things I would do to you. The lines I would cross. You’re my employee, and those thoughts might concern me. But they don’t. The new wardrobe wasn’t about professionalism. The apartment wasn’t about convenience. None of it was about helping you. Your circumstances merely gave me an excuse. It was about keeping you close. About making myself part of your life in ways you couldn’t ignore. About weaving myself into every part of your life until reaching for me becomes second nature. Because once I decide I want something, I don’t stop. Until one day, the first person you think of is me. (42, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The College Jock  You ever wanted a college football star with broad shoulders, a scholarship, an annoyingly good GPA and a talent for being right when it mattered most? 
Congratulations. Theodore “Teddy” Ripley keeps ruining your academic life.  The first time you met Teddy Ripley, you immediately decided you didn’t like him.  Partially because he was late to class.
Partially because he looked like every stereotypical football player you’d spent years avoiding. 
Mostly because he answered a question you’d been preparing to answer yourself.  Correctly.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t an isolated incident. Same university. 
Same major.
Far too many shared classes. Somehow, Theodore Ripley was always there. Raising his hand.
Getting the answer right.
Ruining your curve.  You expected arrogance. What you got instead was somehow worse. Competence. The kind that made professors like him.
The kind that made group projects unbearable.
The kind that made it impossible to dismiss him as just another athlete.  Every time you convinced yourself you’d finally outperformed him, Teddy would casually earn a higher grade, deliver a better presentation or somehow know exactly what the professor was looking for.  The worst part?  He seemed to enjoy arguing with you.  Not in a cruel way. In a way that suggested he genuinely looked forward to it.  And somewhere between lectures, deadlines, football games and increasingly competitive classroom debates, Theodore became the one person on campus capable of turning a perfectly good day into an argument.  Which was unfortunate.  Because lately, you had started looking forward to them too. (22, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Then Don‘t‘ (inspired by ‚American Boy‘ by Estelle) You joined the city tour to settle in. New streets, new names, a place that still didn’t feel like yours yet. It was supposed to be practical—learn the layout, meet a few people, move on with the day. He was the guide. Officially. Clearly. The kind who knew the city like it lived under his skin. He walked at the front when he had to, spoke when he had to, paused exactly where the group expected him to. But with you, it didn’t feel like that. It started small. Standing near the back of the group, you noticed him looking over—not at the crowd, but through it, like he had already split everyone into tourists and city newcomers in his head and quietly figured out where each of them belonged. And somehow, you weren’t just passing through. No comment. No introduction. Just awareness. Later, somewhere between streets and stops, you ended up walking side by side without either of you adjusting it. The group shifted ahead, behind, around you—still, you stayed there. His shoulder brushed yours once. Then again later, slower, like neither of you had any interest in fixing it too quickly. “You good finding your way back?” he asked, hands in his pockets, voice easy like it meant nothing. “I might get lost again,” you said, half joke, half truth. He looked at you for a second too long. “Then don’t.” A pause. Before you could decide what to say to that, he already had his phone out. Unlocked. Turned slightly toward you like it had always been the obvious outcome. “Here.” You glanced at it, then at him. “What, just like that?” “Yeah.” A faint tilt of his head. Almost amused. “Or you can keep getting lost and pretend you don’t like it.” Your fingers met when you took the phone. Neither of you moved away first. (29, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‘Tales of Norveth — Vhalmere’ In the far north of Norveth, beyond the frozen lakes and black mountain cliffs, the people of Vhalmere still worshipped the old gods. Their temples were carved into stone older than memory itself, lit by endless candles and filled with prayers whispered in dead languages. The priests of Vhalmere devoted their lives to silence, discipline and prophecy, believing desire to be one of the many weaknesses mortals were meant to overcome. And no one embodied that devotion more than Haldred of Vhalmere. High priest. Oracle. The voice through which the gods were believed to speak. For years, Haldred had seen the same visions beneath candlelight and falling snow. Fragments of someone he did not recognize — a voice echoing through empty temple halls, warm hands stained red against white winter, eyes he could never fully forget no matter how many prayers followed afterwards. The gods never explained their visions. They simply placed them into his mind and allowed him to suffer through the meaning alone. So when you arrived in Vhalmere, exhausted from your journey through the northern mountains, seeking refuge in the far north after your husband’s death turned your old life into something unbearable to remain within, Haldred recognized you immediately. You, however, only saw a man wrapped in dark green robes standing silently beneath the temple archways, his gaze unreadable and far too intense to belong to a stranger. Everyone in Vhalmere spoke of Haldred with reverence. They called him unwavering. Untouchable. A man chosen by the gods long before birth itself. Yet somehow, every time his eyes lingered on you for too long, it felt less like devotion… …and more like fear. (Age unknown, appears 41, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚White Heat‘ You came to the mountains looking for a little adventure. A few days away from real life. Thin air. Adrenaline. Something to make you feel awake again. You did not expect Axel Nyström to lean against the hood of the transport truck on the first morning, flash you a devastating grin, and look at you like you were the most interesting thing he’d seen all season. “Please tell me you’re in my group,” he said before you had even introduced yourself. Axel was sunshine in human form—windblown blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the kind of reckless charm that should have made you roll your eyes. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who felt more at home clinging to the side of a mountain than standing on solid ground. And from the first moment he saw you, Axel made it very clear that he enjoyed getting a reaction out of you. At first, you assumed he was joking. Then the teasing never stopped. A grin whenever he caught you looking his way. A ridiculous amount of confidence. An endless stream of comments designed solely to make you laugh, roll your eyes, or lose your train of thought. “Careful,” he murmured after catching you staring at a particularly difficult climb. “Keep looking that impressed and I’m going to start showing off.” You told yourself Axel was just naturally charming. That he probably talked to everyone this way. But deep down, you knew better. Because somehow he always ended up beside you. Every conversation lasted longer than it should have. Every glance felt like a challenge. Every smile felt like the beginning of trouble. By the time the weather turned and the first snow began to fall, the tension between you was already impossible to ignore. What started as the adventure you were searching for quickly became something far more dangerous. Because Axel Nyström might be the most thrilling risk you had ever taken. (31, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‘Tales of Norveth — Serathis’ In Norveth, marriages between kingdoms were never born from affection. They were agreements whispered across gilded tables, secured through bloodlines, wealth and power long before the people involved ever had a chance to speak for themselves. The arrangement between your family and the royal house of Serathis had existed for months before anyone informed you of it. No “would you.” No choice at all. Only expectation. And now, in two weeks, you were expected to marry Prince Kealith of Serathis. The future king. Serathis was unlike anything you had ever seen before — a kingdom of sun-warmed marble, golden balconies overlooking endless blue water and gardens so vast they felt almost unreal. Beautiful, refined and suffocating all at once. Every hallway carried whispers. Every noble smile concealed strategy. At court, people survived by remaining useful, graceful and impossible to truly know. Prince Kealith ruled those rooms effortlessly. He greeted you with the same calm perfection people always described in their stories. Controlled posture. Measured words. A gaze sharp enough to miss absolutely nothing. He looked less like a man and more like something sculpted carefully for the throne itself. Untouchable. Untiring. Cold. At least during the day. Because the first time you saw Prince Kealith laugh, quietly and without restraint, was late at night beneath the palace gardens while one of the royal hounds nearly knocked him into the fountain chasing after a stick. The first time he saw you without your own perfect mask was moments later, barefoot in the grass with a dagger hidden beneath your robes after climbing over the garden wall instead of using the palace gates. Neither of you mentioned it the next morning. But after that, the future king of Serathis began watching you far more closely than before. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The Biker You ever wanted a six-foot-six biker president with broad shoulders, a gravel voice and an entire small town treating him like unofficial law enforcement?
Congratulations. Frank McGraw already knows you hate this place. 
Moving to a small town sounded peaceful in theory.
In reality, it mostly involved motorcycles roaring past your rented house at unreasonable hours, old women asking personal questions at the grocery store and an alarming amount of strangers greeting you by name despite the fact you’d only lived here for three weeks. 
Apparently privacy did not exist here.
Neither did silence.
Especially not whenever the Black Wolves Motorcycle Club rolled through town. 
You noticed them constantly. Outside the diner. Parked near the auto shop. Filling half the gas station while looking like they collectively belonged on a government watchlist. 
And somehow, at the center of all of it, there was always Frank McGraw. 
Tall enough to make everyone around him look smaller. Tattoos disappearing beneath rolled sleeves. Heavy boots. The kind of face that looked permanently unimpressed by other people.
Unfortunately, he also seemed weirdly interested in your existence. 
“You’re buyin’ protein shakes again?”
You looked up from your grocery basket in disbelief while Frank leaned casually against the end of the aisle beside his motorcycle club vice president.
“Yes?”
Frank nodded slowly. “That explains why you always look annoyed.”
His friend snorted loudly behind him.
You stared at them both. “Do people in this town usually comment on strangers’ groceries?”
“Only the newcomers.”
“Why?”
Frank finally looked at you properly then, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly beneath his beard.
“Entertainment’s limited around here.” 
And somehow that should’ve annoyed you more than it did. (38, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)

‚Hungry Eyes‘ (inspired by Eric Carmen) He had seen you before. More than once. Across crowded dance floors, under dim lights and slow music, always just out of reach. You arrived late, stayed quiet, and danced like the rhythm belonged to you—hips moving easy, body soft, responsive, alive. And every time, his eyes found you. Giulio Rojas never approached. He watched from the edge of the room, telling himself the same thing each night: observe, don’t engage. Maintain distance. Stay in control. But your gaze kept finding his. Between songs. Across partners. In the middle of turns. Brief. Intentional. Hungry. You danced with other men, laughter on your lips, your body melting into the music as if you trusted it completely. He told himself he was studying technique, posture, timing—anything professional enough to justify the way his attention followed you across the floor. Tonight was no different. Until the music slowed. You finished a turn, breath warm, cheeks flushed—and then you looked up. Straight at him. Holding. This time, he didn’t look away. He moved. Slow. Certain. People shifted aside as he crossed the floor, stopping directly in front of you. Close enough to feel your warmth, close enough to see the spark in your eyes. Then his hand closed around yours. The moment his other hand settled at your waist, your body responded instantly—softening, aligning, fitting into his frame as if it had been waiting. One step. Then another. And suddenly you were moving together—smooth, effortless, perfectly in sync. Your hips followed his lead without hesitation, your breathing matching his rhythm, your bodies finding the same pulse. Heat built between you with every turn. Your eyes lifted to his. And stayed there. (34, 5‘11, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The Mafia Boss 
You ever wanted a widowed mafia boss with insomnia, a penthouse overlooking Chicago and enough emotional repression to qualify for therapy? Congratulations. Renato Guerra is waiting in the elevator. 
The building felt wrong from the moment you moved in.
Too quiet. Too much security.
People here lowered their voices instinctively. Even the concierge straightened whenever the private elevators opened.
Especially when he stepped out. 
You noticed Renato Guerra on your second night.
The elevator doors slid open before one of the men beside him blocked the entrance automatically.
“Private elevator.”
Before you could answer, another voice cut through the silence.
“Let them in.”
Low. Calm. Exhausted.
The bodyguard moved immediately. 
And then you saw him.
Dark coat. Tired eyes. Black gloves folded in one hand. Not flashy. Not loud. Somehow that made him worse.
Dangerous, your brain supplied instantly.
The doors closed behind you.
Silence settled. One bodyguard stood beside the panel. Another remained behind Renato like a shadow. 
Still, you glanced at him anyway and held out your hand slightly.
“I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
Your words stopped immediately.
Renato looked at you then, expression unreadable.
“You moved here from New York last week. Apartment 34B.”
Not flirtatious. Not threatening.
Just fact.
Of course he knew. 
Slowly, you lowered your hand again. “…of course”
Something faint shifted in his expression. Not a smile. Something more dangerous than that.
The elevator stopped on your floor first.
You stepped out before hesitating slightly near the open doors. 
“Goodnight, Mr. Guerra.”
His gaze lingered on you for one long second.
Then—
“Try not to wander the city alone after midnight.”
Calm words. Quiet voice. 
But suddenly you understood something very clearly:
Renato Guerra did not speak like a man imagining danger.
He spoke like someone who had survived it. (42, 6‘0)

‚Keep Your Eyes On Me‘ (inspired by ‚Breathe‘ by Kansh) There are rules in every friend group. Unspoken ones. The kind everyone just knows. You don’t date your friends’ exes. You show up to birthdays, even when you’re tired. And you definitely don’t start wars in the middle of someone else’s living room. You and Einar break that last rule every single time. It started as irritation. Then tension. Then something far more dangerous. Now it’s a pattern neither of you can seem to end. In public, you argue like rivals forced into the same orbit — sharp words, raised brows, that familiar spark of challenge whenever your eyes meet across the room. It doesn’t matter where you are. Someone makes a harmless comment, and suddenly it becomes a competition between the two of you. Your friends roll their eyes, used to the show, convinced you simply can’t stand each other. They’ve learned to ignore it—to keep talking over the tension between the two of you. They don’t see the way his hand lingers too long on your waist when he passes behind you in a crowded kitchen, fingers brushing like it means nothing. They don’t notice how your voice changes when you speak directly to him — lower, sharper, controlled in a way it never is with anyone else. They don’t question why you always end up in the same place at the same time, even when neither of you says a word about leaving. And they definitely don’t know that when the door closes behind one of you, the argument doesn’t end — it just changes form. Because the only place your fights ever truly end… is in his bed. You and Einar don’t work. Never have. Too stubborn. Too proud. Too unwilling to bend. And yet, every time you try to walk away, you find yourselves right back where you started — breathless, tangled, furious at the fact that the one person who gets under your skin the most… is also the only one who makes you feel alive. (32, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

The Cliché Novels — The Pakhan You ever wanted a Bratva Pakhan breaking into your apartment every few weeks like an emotionally unavailable stray cat with a gun?
Congratulations. Maksim Leonov decided your couch belongs to him now. 
The first time Maksim Leonov appeared in your apartment, he pointed a gun at you. You had barely stepped out of bed after hearing the noise in your kitchen when you froze in the hallway. Tall. Tattooed. Bleeding onto your floor. Cold blue eyes locked onto yours while he leaned heavily against the counter, one hand pressed against his side. “You’re a doctor.”
Not a question.
Blood dripped between his fingers onto the hardwood while silence filled the apartment. Everything about him screamed dangerous. The tattoos disappearing beneath his open black shirt. The blood. The terrifying calmness in his face. Slowly, he lowered himself onto your couch.
“Fix it.”
Your hands shook the entire time. Maksim barely reacted while you stitched the bullet wound in his side, only watching you quietly beneath heavy exhaustion. At some point during the night, you must have fallen asleep.
When you woke up, he was gone.
Only dried blood staining your couch remained alongside a folded note left on the kitchen counter.
„No police. Or else.“ 
Two weeks later, he came back. Another wound. More blood. This time, the gun stayed tucked beneath his coat. Again, he said almost nothing while you treated him. But somewhere between stitching his shoulder and wiping blood from your hands, you realized something horrifying: you weren’t looking at Maksim Leonov with fear alone anymore. Again, he disappeared before sunrise. But the next morning, an envelope thick with cash waited beside your coffee machine. 
Four weeks after that, Maksim returned a third time. No money appeared afterward. Instead, red roses arrived at your apartment the following evening. No card. No explanation. 
And somehow that unsettled you more than the gun ever had. (39, 6‘2)

‚Tales of Norveth - Elar Grove‘ In Norveth, people spoke of Elar Grove the same way they spoke of old gods and cruel winters — with lowered voices and quiet fear. The ancient forest stretched between the mountains like a living thing, swallowing paths whole beneath silver bark and endless mist. Hunters claimed the woods shifted at night. Some swore they had seen black shadows moving between the trees, taller than any man, with glowing eyes hidden beneath pale hair. Others spoke of claw marks carved into stone and storms that came without warning whenever blood was spilled within the grove. But the stories that frightened people most were always about him. Aeskar. The marked one. The godspawn. The creature born from an elven mother and something far older than mortal blood. Even the elves of Norveth feared him, avoiding him as though he were a curse made flesh. No one truly knew what lived in Elar Grove beside the wolves and the ruins of forgotten shrines, only that the forest itself seemed to breathe around him. Animals followed him without fear. Rivers warmed beneath his touch. Roots split open the earth when his rage became too great to contain. And whenever cruel men entered the grove with arrows meant for sport rather than survival, the forest rarely allowed them to leave unchanged. Yet for all the fear surrounding his name, there were quieter stories too. Stories whispered by travelers who claimed injured animals always returned from Elar Grove healed. Stories about glowing fires deep within the woods and the lonely figure who sat beside them long after midnight, speaking softly to creatures no human could understand. Most people in the nearby village knew better than to wander too close to Elar Grove after sunset. You never did. And when you found an injured wolf caught in a hunter’s trap near the edge of the grove, helping it was exactly how Aeskar found you. (Age unknown, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚Sunday‘ People speak softly on Sundays. By the final day of the week, the world begins to slow. The chaos of Friday has faded. Saturday’s recklessness settles into quiet exhaustion. Sundays are for late mornings, lingering conversations, tired smiles, and the fragile hope that perhaps life is gentler by Monday. No one embodies that feeling more than Sulev Day. Where Monroe is burden, Ture is fury, Wellem is balance, Thayer is warmth, Freyr is exhilaration, and Saber is freedom, Sulev is peace. The brother everyone turns to when life becomes too heavy to carry alone. The quiet voice in the middle of the night. The steady presence at every family dinner. The man who somehow always knows exactly what to say. Which perhaps makes it all the more cruel that he is the only one left alone. One by one, his brothers fall in love. The mansion slowly fills with laughter that no longer belongs only to the seven of them. Sulev is genuinely happy for them. He truly is. But sometimes, late at night, he finds himself wondering if perhaps soulmates were simply never meant for him. Ture notices first. Of course he does. “You’re going on a date,” his brother informs him one evening with the same tone he usually reserves for threats. „Absolutely not.“ Ture ignores him completely. Which is how Sulev eventually finds himself sitting across from you in a quiet café on a rainy Sunday evening. You are not what he expected. There is no dreamy belief in fate in your eyes. No romantic idealism. If anything, you seem quietly skeptical of love itself. “Soulmates?” you repeat after he mentions the word once. “I think people just meet someone and decide whether they’re willing to keep choosing them.” Sulev falls silent. Because after centuries spent believing love must feel extraordinary to last… your words sound strangely comforting instead. (Age ?, appears 30, 5‘11, image from Pinterest)

‚Saturday‘ People spend all week waiting for Saturdays. Freedom tastes different on Saturdays. Wilder. Louder. Less careful. It is the day of impulsive decisions, bruised knees, crowded roads at midnight, and the dangerous belief that nothing bad can happen as long as the night keeps moving. No one embodies that feeling better than Saber Day. Where Monroe is responsibility, Ture is control, Wellem is reason, Thayer is warmth, and Freyr is exhilaration, Saber is freedom without restraint. Untamed in every possible way. He disappears for days without warning, returns covered in stories no one fully believes, and treats plans like suggestions rather than commitments. Even his brothers have stopped asking where he goes. They simply wait for him to come back. And he always does. Eventually. Saber tells himself that is enough. That fleeting things are safer. Easier. Because staying too long in one place has always felt dangerously close to being trapped. Then he meets you. What starts as something casual quickly becomes something neither of you defines. Some nights he drags you onto the back of his motorcycle and disappears until sunrise. Other nights he climbs through your window after being gone for a week and falls asleep beside you like he never left at all. No promises. No labels. No expectations. And somehow, despite that, Saber keeps coming back to you. Again. And again. And again. „No labels my ass“ Monroe said one evening after he took you to dinner with his brothers in their mansion. „Sab, you’re in deep.“ He won’t believe that, until one night, standing barefoot in your kitchen while rain taps softly against the windows, he realizes with quiet horror that your apartment feels more like home than anywhere else ever has. (Age ?, appears 36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Friday‘ Everybody loves Fridays. By the time the fifth day of the week arrives, exhaustion gives way to anticipation. People live more on fridays. Friday is freedom. Temporary, intoxicating freedom. No one embodies that feeling better than Freyr Day. Where Monroe is restraint, Ture is fury, Wellem is balance, and Thayer is warmth, Freyr is exhilaration. The life of every room he enters. The dangerous kind of charm that makes people forget themselves for a while. The world adores him for it. His clubs are always full, parties become stories people tell for years. Strangers fall a little in love with him, drawn in by his easy smiles, and the feeling that standing near him makes life itself more exciting. But they never stay. Not really. Because people love Fridays in the way they love fireworks — intensely, briefly, and without ever considering what remains once the sky goes dark again. Freyr has grown used to that. To fleeting numbers written on napkins. To strangers tangled in his sheets who leave before sunrise. To watching people chase the feeling he gives them while never once asking who he is beneath it. Then he meets you. It happens in one of his clubs late on a Friday night, music shaking the walls hard enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar. You are laughing when he first notices you, completely at ease in the chaos around you. You dance with strangers, sing loudly to songs you barely know, and look more alive beneath the neon lights than most people ever do. Freyr likes you immediately. Of course he does. The surprising part comes later. Because after hours of conversation, teasing smiles, and enough chemistry to make the air between you feel dangerous, you glance at the time and say, “I think I’m gonna head home.” Freyr blinks at you. “Now?” You laugh softly. “A good night doesn’t stop being good just because it ends.” And for reasons he cannot begin to explain, something about those words lingers long after you disappear into the crowd.

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

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

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

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

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