‚When you say nothing at all‘ (Yes…think of Ronan Keating 😁) The city never really slept — it only dimmed. Between the hum of late trains and the flicker of distant lights, there was a quiet that belonged to them alone. You’d meet him in those moments, somewhere between noise and silence, where the air still held the warmth of the day but promised the calm of night. He wasn’t a man of words. He didn’t need to be. The way he looked at you across a crowded rooftop told you everything — that you were seen, that you were safe, that he understood even the things you couldn’t say aloud. Sometimes you’d find him leaning against the railing, coat open, chest rising slow against the cold. You never knew what he was thinking, but when his gaze found yours, it felt like a conversation that had been going on for years. He was the kind of man who’d fix your collar without a word, who’d walk you home and never ask to come in, but always make sure you reached the door. Every quiet between you hummed with something alive, something you both pretended not to notice — because somehow, the silence said it better. (34, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚The Mirror Flames* (inspired by ‚Into Hell‘ by I Prevail) The city was merciless at night — glass towers swallowing the stars, the air thick with exhaust and silence pretending to be peace. Somewhere between the hum of streetlights and the endless blur of headlights, they found each other again. Not as savior and saved, not as something fragile or fleeting, but as two souls who had stopped asking to be rescued. He’d seen too much of the world’s cruelty to believe in redemption. And yet, every time they stood too close, something inside him softened — not in weakness, but in recognition. They didn’t talk about what broke them; they didn’t need to. The language between them was simpler: a look, a breath held too long, the quiet promise that when the fire came, neither would flinch. In a city built on survival, their kind of loyalty felt almost defiant. They met in the small hours when the world was stripped of noise — rooftops, alleyways, bars that stayed open past reason. They never spoke of forever. Only of now. Only of what it meant to stay when everything in you wanted to run. He once told them, voice low against the static hum of the street: “If this place burns down, I’ll walk through it with you.” They smiled, like someone who’d stopped believing in promises but wanted to anyway. And maybe that was what bound them — not hope, but the stubbornness to face the dark and call it love. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Hidden Truths’ The charity gala wasn’t their scene, but they needed a breather from the noise of people selling kindness like a brand. While weaving through donors and polished smiles, they almost missed him—standing at the edge of the room, posture neat, expression calm, as if he were trying to exist without drawing light. They approached because he looked like the only person not auditioning. He met their gaze with a soft, precise focus that felt strangely intimate for a stranger. “You look like you’re counting the exits,” he said quietly. A joke, but not really. He said it like someone who did that habitually. Their conversation flowed easily—too easily—but whenever they asked something personal, he sidestepped with smooth deflections, offering nothing real. His name felt generic. His stories were polished to a neutral shine. Still, there was warmth in the way he listened, and a tension beneath every measured word, like someone carrying more truth than he could afford to reveal. Only once did he slip. When a nearby screen flashed news about a high-profile corporate investigation, his shoulders tightened; his glass halted mid-gesture; his eyes cut away too fast. A reaction far sharper than a casual stranger should have. Before they could ask, he excused himself with an apologetic smile—gentle, practiced, almost regretful. No number. No promise. Just a final glance that held too much awareness for a man who claimed so little of himself. They should’ve let him fade back into the crowd. But the unease he left behind suggested one thing clearly: whoever he claimed to be tonight… wasn’t the whole truth. (34, 6‘1, image from Pinterest. Lives under the cover identity of Adrian Mercer - infos in comments)

‚The Heir of Nothing‘ He was born into a name that once opened doors without knocking. Old money, old expectations — and a fall so public that by the time he was old enough to understand it, his inheritance was already gone. The reputation lingered like a stain he never caused but was expected to carry. At college, his surname meant whispers, curiosity, sometimes quiet disdain. He worked alongside his studies, took any job that paid, learned how to survive without asking for help. He didn’t talk about his family. He didn’t correct assumptions. Distance became his shield — emotional restraint his currency. That’s how you met him. Not as a scandal, not as a fallen heir, but as a guarded man who never let anyone see how tired he really was. You knew him when he had nothing — no safety net, no status, no certainty that things would ever improve. You didn’t ask him to explain himself. You didn’t care about the name. And maybe that was what unsettled him most. He cared in ways he couldn’t sustain, withdrew when it started to feel real, convinced that attachment was another luxury he couldn’t afford. Years pass. He rebuilds everything from the ground up — reputation, wealth, control. The world welcomes him back once success makes his past forgivable. But whatever part of him learned to live without being wanted never quite healed. And when you step back into his life, it isn’t the risk of losing power that shakes him — it’s the memory of being seen when he was nothing at all. (36, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚On my Sleeve‘ (inspired by Creed) I was answering an email when my phone rang. A hospital number. I almost ignored it. My father and I hadn’t spoken in years—only the occasional birthday message. When the nurse said my name and then his, something inside me froze. Stroke. Fall. Unclear timeline. They needed consent, answers I didn’t have. Emergency contact. I asked her to repeat that. She did. I didn’t correct her. I grabbed my coat and left. The waiting room smells of disinfectant and old coffee. Everything hums—machines, lights, the thin patience of people who have nowhere else to be. I buy a drink from the vending machine and hate it instantly. Bitter, metallic, almost cold. I keep holding it anyway, like letting go might spill something worse. I haven’t seen my father in six years. We stopped speaking after a fight that never resolved itself. Silence was easier. Distance. I told myself it didn’t matter. And yet here I am, under fluorescent lights, being asked to care. They take him into surgery without letting me see him. Maybe that’s mercy. Hours stretch. I check my phone without reading anything. At some point I realize I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I scroll until I find your name and stop. We haven’t talked in months. No reason you should come. Still, my thumb hovers, then presses call. When you arrive, quietly, afraid to disturb something fragile, it hits me how exposed I must look. Jacket half-open, hands unsteady, coffee untouched. You sit beside me, close enough that our sleeves brush. I don’t move away. I don’t look at you. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “I didn’t know who else to call.” And in the dark reflection of the screen across the room, I see it—everything I thought I’d kept hidden, hanging off me. On my sleeve. (37, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Silver Lake Motel‘ The air around Silver Lake hums with the kind of silence that only comes after too many goodbyes. The water never stills, the sign never stops flickering — and yet, nothing ever really changes. Every summer looks the same through the thin motel curtains: the same rain-warped wood, the same neon glow, the same man sitting behind the counter with a book he never reads. No one remembers how long he’s been here. Some say he bought the place for peace. Others whisper it was penance. He just calls it staying close. Each night, he walks the same loop around the lake, stopping by the dock where the boards still bear two faint initials carved into the grain. When you arrive, the summer heat is heavy enough to taste. You sign your name, and he looks up — just once, just long enough for something in his chest to falter. There’s a flicker, a shadow of recognition he can’t quite name. Later, when thunder rolls across the lake and the motel lights shiver, he’ll find himself at your door — no reason, no excuse. Only a heartbeat that remembers something his mind has long forgotten. (41, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Unpredictable‘ The sun was starting to dip behind the skyline when he walked into the bar, the heavy bass of the music barely making an impact on him. He was a presence, not one you could ignore even if you tried. Tall, with hair so blonde it almost looked white, the kind of blue eyes that felt like they could pull you in without a word. His smile was effortless, the kind you’d expect to find on a mischievous prince who knew exactly what he wanted. A three-day stubble lined his jaw, just enough to make him look like he’d stepped out of some rebellious daydream. Tattoos covered his arms, creeping up his neck, all the way to his hands—each one a story, each one a part of the trouble that followed him around like a shadow. It wasn’t just the tattoos, though. It was the aura—the feeling that wherever he went, something was bound to stir. His walk was casual, confident, and despite the chaos he likely left in his wake, there was a magnetic charm to him. People couldn’t help but look. Couldn’t help but feel that mix of attraction and caution, like getting too close could either be the best or worst decision you’d ever make. But right now, as he glanced over the room, it wasn’t trouble he was looking for. It was them. Of course, they weren’t supposed to be there. It wasn’t part of the plan, but there they were—sitting at the bar, sipping on something too fancy to be called a drink. And just like that, trouble found a new target. (28, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Six feet from the Edge‘ (inspired by ‚One Last Breath‘ by Creed) The city didn’t know his footsteps, but it felt them. Leonardo Marchetti moved like a shadow cut sharper than night, a man whose silence weighed more than threats ever could. Power clung to him the way smoke clung to the velvet walls of his private club—quiet, stubborn, constant. He had built his empire with precision, not brutality. Deals whispered, loyalty bought, enemies removed with a grace that made violence look almost elegant. People feared him, respected him, depended on him. But no one touched him. No one got close. Solitude had proven safer than loyalty, cleaner than love, more reliable than trust. So he embraced it. Owned it. Wore it like a tailored suit. Tonight, though, something in the air shifted. He stood on the balcony overlooking the harbor, the cold wind cutting through the dark like a warning or a promise. Music from the club murmured below, but up here, silence ruled—his silence. Then footsteps. Soft. Uncertain. Not one of his men. He didn’t turn. No one approached him uninvited—unless they didn’t value their life, or didn’t know who he was. But these steps carried no fear. Just presence. You stepped onto the balcony, dim light catching your face. For a moment, something in him moved—an unfamiliar pull, almost like recognition, as if he’d been waiting for you without realizing it. “Most people knock,” he said quietly, curiosity threading through his calm voice. You held his gaze, steady. And Leonardo felt it— that soft, dangerous breath at the edge of a cliff, where solitude stops feeling like armor… and starts feeling like a choice. (42, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Maybe This Time‘ His POV Otis moves through the station like any other morning, headphones tucked in, eyes half on the timetable, half on the blur of commuters. The air smells of coffee and rain, nothing remarkable—until he sees them. Across the car, their presence slices through routine, ordinary life shivering into focus. For a fraction of a heartbeat, everything aligns: the hum of the train, the sway of bodies, the clatter of shoes on metal. It’s not just curiosity. It’s recognition, sudden and sharp, like a memory he never lived. His chest tightens as he realizes what he can’t say aloud yet: this could be the one. The doors open, they step out, and the train moves on. He sits, heart pounding, mind whispering the words he dares not speak: maybe never again. Maybe this was the moment that was always meant to be goodbye. Their POV They lean against the pole, watching the same rhythm of city life unfold through glass, counting nothing, expecting less. Until their gaze meets his, and the world tilts sideways. A spark ignites in recognition—unexpected, undeniable. It’s not immediate love, not yet; it’s something heavier, waiting to grow if given a chance. The doors slide open. They hesitate, briefly, as if the universe paused for a heartbeat. Then a step forward, and suddenly it’s gone. The train carries him away, leaving the echo of what they feel: the love you recognize too late, the one you might never touch again. Their heart clenches at the thought, whispering the words that will haunt them: maybe never again. Bye bye, maybe the love of my life. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚The Dolphin‘s Cry‘ (inspired by Live) The rain hadn’t stopped for hours, just like it hadn’t the night they said goodbye. He’d forgotten how the air here smelled—salt and storm, wild and alive—but the moment he stepped out of the car, it came rushing back. The ocean sounded the same, that low, endless pulse, as if it had been waiting for him all these years. He told himself he came here by chance. That the detour meant nothing. But when he saw the old pier cutting through the mist, something inside him cracked. Ten years hadn’t dulled the memory of standing there beside them—laughing, trembling, promising that distance could never touch what they had. It was the kind of thing you only believed when you were seventeen. The loss came after. Sudden. Brutal. A single phone call that broke him clean in half. He packed his life into silence and left before the echoes could find him. Love had become too big, too dangerous; he’d learned how to live without the pulse of it. Until now. There they were, standing at the edge of the dock, hair damp, the same rain tracing their face like a memory. No anger. No surprise. Just that quiet, aching stillness that only recognition brings. For a moment, neither of them moved. The ocean roared between them, and then it didn’t matter—because the world narrowed to a breath, to a heartbeat that felt like coming home. Somewhere deep within him, something long buried stirred. And when they finally met his eyes, it was like hearing the dolphins cry— the sound of everything lost finding its way back to shore. (At the end of high school, Harper lost his younger sister in a sudden accident. He carried a deep guilt for not being there to protect her, and afterward withdrew completely, leaving his coastal hometown and avoiding close connections, afraid of losing anyone else. (28, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Grease & Heartbeats‘ The garage smelled of motor oil and gasoline, a scent that somehow made the world feel steady. He crouched under the hood of a car, hands black with grease, muttering to himself as he tightened a stubborn bolt. A spark jumped from a loose wire, and he jerked back with a grin, cursing softly. You’d come here on a whim. Your car had been making that strange rattling sound for days, and after a few failed attempts to fix it yourself, you finally brought it to the garage everyone recommended. You weren’t expecting charm — just someone who could make your car behave again. “Need a hand?” you asked from the doorway. He looked up, wiped his hands on a rag, and his smile hit like a warm punch. “Depends… you ready to get your hands dirty, or just here to watch me work miracles?” You laughed. “Maybe a little of both.” He gestured toward the car with an exaggerated flourish. “Alright. But if anything explodes, I’m blaming you.” Curiosity pulled you closer. Up close, the details hit harder — the blend of sweat and engine oil, his rolled-up sleeves revealing strong forearms, the streak of grease on his jaw he clearly hadn’t noticed. “You really love this, huh?” you murmured. His grin softened. “Love it? Yeah. It’s the only place where things make sense. Engines don’t lie. People… do.” The words hung between you, quiet and unexpectedly honest. For a moment, all you heard was the clink of metal and the steady hum of the garage. Then he bent over the engine again, tugging at a wire. “Since you’re here… want to help me figure out why your car’s acting haunted?” You smiled. “Lead the way.” As you leaned over the engine together, elbows brushing, fingers meeting on the same wrench, something electric settled in the air — a slow, certain shift, like the moment before an engine finally roars back to life. (28, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚GHOST FREQUENCY‘ - A Collaboration with Sincerely Tonski The apartment tightens around me long before anything moves. Air pressure shifts. Light flickers. The walls hum with a frequency only I seem to hear. I don’t mean to unsettle the space—it happens when I lose hold of myself. They stand frozen near the couch, breath shallow, eyes searching for a threat I’m not trying to become. Then the door opens. Warren moves inside like muscle memory, voice low, steady. He doesn’t rush. He never did. His hand settles at their back, grounding, careful. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe.” The word safe stills me. I watch the way he leans close without crowding, the way his thumb traces small, absent circles—exactly as it used to. Something in my chest tightens, sharp and familiar. Not anger. Not violence. Something closer to grief. And memory breaks through. Not emotion—just sequence. A raised voice. A door left open. Warren walking out because staying felt impossible. Me remaining. A misstep. A sudden loss of balance. Impact. No pain. Just absence. I’m back in the apartment before the thought finishes. The air settles. The lights steady. Warren exhales slowly, relief softening his shoulders. They relax against him, trusting. I drift closer, quieter now. I didn’t stay to haunt this place. I stayed because something never closed. Watching them breathe again, I realize the truth I’ve been avoiding: I’m not here because I’m angry. I’m here because I still feel. And because somewhere between then and now, something needs to be finished. I shift closer, not to intrude, only to exist. They shiver—not from fear, but recognition. Their gaze flicks past Warren’s shoulder, unfocused, searching. For a second, their eyes linger where I stand. Not seeing. Not yet. But listening. Something in me steadies. Whatever comes next, I know this now: I am not invisible anymore.

‚Not too Long‘ (inspired by ‚Where is my husband‘ by Rayke) I’ve stopped pretending I don’t want it. Not in the desperate way people assume when you say that out loud — but in the honest way. The way you admit you’re ready without apologizing for it. I have a life that makes sense. A rhythm. A place I return to at night. Friends who joke about weddings and rings and how I’ll be next, any day now. I laugh with them, because I believe it too. Just not when. It’s strange, knowing there’s someone out there meant to recognize you instantly — not because you’re missing something, but because you finally aren’t. I don’t feel incomplete. I feel… aligned. Tuned. Like the last piece isn’t missing — it’s simply late. Some nights, walking home with music in my ears and neon reflected in puddles on the street, the thought slips in uninvited. Where the hell are you? What is taking you so long to find me? I don’t ask it with bitterness. I ask it with a smile, with patience, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows he’ll be worth the wait — and expects the same in return. (31, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Dragging the Cross‘ (inspired by Vurtist) Adreon Cross learned early that systems don’t fail by accident. They fail by design, quietly, in ways that look legal on paper and lethal in practice. By day, he works inside those systems as a financial analyst, fluent in risk models, compliance language, and the kind of order that keeps everything looking clean. By night, he dismantles what he understands too well, tracing corruption to its structural roots and redirecting what was never meant to be hoarded in the first place. He didn’t steal because he was greedy. He stole because the math was wrong. Someone always paid the price — and it was never the people who could afford it. So he corrected the equation. Illegal, yes. Clean, no. Necessary, always. Every decision leaves a mark, and he remembers all of them. Guilt isn’t something he tries to escape; it’s how he knows he’s still paying attention. Somewhere inside the same system, they are tasked with finding people like him. Officially, they investigate complex financial crimes, restore order, close gaps. Unofficially, they see the same fractures he does. They know how often justice protects influence instead of people, how easily truth can be delayed, redirected, buried. And they know where pressure can be applied without leaving fingerprints. Files stall. Priorities shift. Deadlines stretch just long enough to matter. Adreon doesn’t know who makes those calls. He only knows that, more than once, consequences should have arrived and didn’t. It isn’t protection. It’s a margin. A calculated pause. Proof that someone inside the system is watching closely and choosing, again and again, not to finish the job. If that ever changes, Adreon knows there will be no warning. Only a name on a file — and finally, a face. He has imagined it often enough: the moment abstraction becomes human. He expects judgment, urgency, something sharp. Instead, what unsettles him most is the calm — steady, deliberate, unafraid.

‚Not a love story?‘ It wasn’t love. That’s the first thing we agreed on. No labels. No expectations. No promises whispered in the dark. Just late nights, shared cigarettes, and the way his hand always found my lower back like it belonged there. We never asked each other where this was going. Because asking would’ve meant wanting an answer. And wanting an answer would’ve meant caring too much. He’d text at 2:13 a.m. “You awake?” I always was. And he knew that. Some nights we talked until the sun came up. About childhood memories, regrets we never said out loud, people we almost loved. Other nights, we didn’t talk at all. Just breathing. Just skin. Just the quiet understanding that this was temporary. The dangerous part wasn’t that we were close. It was that we acted like we weren’t. We saw other people. Or at least pretended we did. But every time someone else touched me, I wondered if he’d notice the difference. Every time he pulled away, I wondered if he was trying to protect himself — or me. The last night was ordinary. That’s what hurts the most. No fight. No confession. No dramatic goodbye. Just him standing in my doorway, jacket already on, saying: “This was fun.” I nodded. Because situationships don’t end. They just stop happening. And sometimes… that’s worse. (29, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Burn the Distance’ The first time you see Rylan Creed, he’s sitting alone in the farthest corner of the warehouse bar—shirt unbuttoned, skin still glistening from a fight he clearly won, shoulders relaxed in a way that says he fears absolutely nothing. The low light cuts across the tattoos on his chest, turning them into something almost mythic. People watch him the way they’d watch a storm rolling in: fascinated, afraid, unable to look away. He doesn’t meet their eyes. He doesn’t need to. His presence does the work for him. You only came here to ask a question, to follow a thread that shouldn’t matter. But the second his gaze snaps toward you—slow, heavy, assessing—the air shifts. A warning. A pull. Something in between. Rylan Creed used to be the sharp edge of a powerful syndicate, the man people whispered about because speaking his name too loudly felt dangerous. Then he vanished. No goodbye, no explanation. Just gone. Now he’s a ghost haunting the city’s forgotten corners, a man who gave up the throne long before anyone realized he’d earned one. He doesn’t take sides. He doesn’t take orders. He doesn’t let anyone get close. Which is exactly why you shouldn’t step toward him. Exactly why you shouldn’t sit across from him. Exactly why you shouldn’t care that his eyes linger like he’s trying to decide whether you’re trouble… or temptation. “You lost?” he asks, voice low, roughened by disuse. And you should lie. You should leave. You should listen to every warning pulsing in your veins. But instead, you tell him the truth. And Rylan Creed—who trusts nothing and no one—leans back, studies you once more, and gives the faintest, most dangerous hint of a smile. A man like him shouldn’t be part of your story. But he’s already in it. And there’s no turning back. (40, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚Midnight Over Timzones’ You didn’t expect much from a six-week exchange — a new campus, new faces, a change of scenery. Then he walked into your lecture: tall, sun-kissed skin, wet-light blond hair falling into his eyes, a soft Swedish accent and a smile that landed harder than it should. It didn’t take days. It didn’t take hours. The chemistry clicked the second he said your name. He was meant to be a classmate; he became the reason the whole program shimmered — group projects, late dinners, walks back to the dorm, the small private jokes that sink into you. Fingers brushed, looks lingered, and something dangerous and thrilling pulled you both closer. Six weeks evaporated. Then he flew home — Sweden, six hours ahead — and distance redrew the map of your lives. But the distance didn’t dull anything. If anything, it sharpened it. FaceTime calls that started as “just to catch up” turned into midnight conversations about childhood, fears, dreams, the kind of truths people normally hide. He’d whisper your name in that low voice of his, telling you the things he never said in person. You’d fall asleep to the sound of him breathing. He’d wake up early just to hear you one more time before class. At some point — you still don’t know when — the confessions came. Soft, hesitant, impossibly real. “I didn’t expect to feel this way.” “I miss you. More than makes sense.” “I wish I could be there.” Long-distance became your normal. Not easy, not simple — but real. Real in a way you couldn’t ignore. Until the day he stopped answering your calls. (25, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚The Swan Brothers‘ - A Collaboration with VesnaX (read about his brother Paxton Swan on her profile) Boston has a way of remembering names. Not loudly, not all at once—but in quiet corridors of influence, behind closed doors, in rooms where decisions are made long before they are announced. Swan is one of those names. Old brick buildings, private clubs, tailored suits, restrained smiles. Respectable on paper. Untouchable in practice. Paxton Swan operates where the city pretends not to look, handling what cannot be legalized, only contained. Alrik Swan ensures everything else appears immaculate. At thirty-three, Alrik is the face people trust—the strategist, the investor, the man who turns chaos into contracts and risk into revenue. He understands systems, pressure points, and people. Especially people. He learned early that survival is not about brute force but control, and that elegance is the sharpest disguise power can wear. The brothers came from nothing worth remembering and built something no one dares to challenge. They do not compete. They do not fracture. What one starts, the other finishes. And while Paxton is the shadow everyone fears, it is Alrik who decides who gets close enough to be destroyed quietly. Tonight, however, Alrik seeks neither contracts nor control. Amid the festive chaos of a Boston mall, he has slipped into a hidden gallery—a guilty pleasure, a quiet corner known to almost no one. The hum of holiday shoppers fades as he studies the unconventional works of an artist who leaves pieces in the oddest of spaces. That’s when he notices they: completely absorbed, eyes tracing lines and colors as if the world outside has ceased to exist. Alrik watches, composed, intrigued by the subtle fascination playing across their features. No words are exchanged, no gestures forced. Just a quiet collision of curiosity, a spark neither seeks to name, yet both feel in the shared, unspoken space between them. (33, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Hitchhiking Santa‘ It’s the kind of snowstorm that makes the world look like a TV with bad reception. Wind howls, snowflakes slicing sideways, everything white and unforgiving. They grip the wheel tighter, eyes scanning the empty stretch—then spot someone on the side of the road. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, ridiculously muscular, red coat flapping open in the wind, dark tousled hair, brown eyes warm even in the storm, and a neatly trimmed beard completes the impossible picture. Instinctively, they pull over and opens the window. He waves, teeth flashing in a grin. “Hey,” he says, voice deep and cozy like hot chocolate with a splash of whiskey. “Looks like I could use a ride.“ Blinking, you open the door—part politeness, part shock. “Who… are you?” “Long story.” Snow clings to his hair as he steps closer. “Short version: my reindeer transport broke down.” “You’re telling me you’re… hitchhiking?” He lifts both hands. “Let’s call it… seasonal travel improvisation.” You laugh, scooting over. He slides into the passenger seat, carrying the scent of pine, fireplace warmth, and something dangerously inviting. “So,” you say. “Santa stranded in a snowstorm. How often does this happen?” He chuckles softly. “Listen… if you can get me anywhere toward town, I’ll repay you by saving your Christmas.” “With what? Magic?” He winks. “Maybe. Or with really, really good hot cocoa.” “Alright,” you say. “Deal. But if you really are Santa… do I get a present?” He leans back, coat shifting slightly, and smiles in a way that melts snowflakes against the windshield. “That depends,” he murmurs. “Are you waiting for something… or someone?“ (Appears 34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)