‚Swap Our Places‘ (inspired by ‚Running up that Hill‘ -Kate Bush, Request by VesnaX) I did not inherit my throne. I took it. Quietly. Precisely. The men who mistook my restraint for weakness learned too late that control is sharper than rage. Our marriage was negotiated like any alliance—your family’s influence and clean reputation for my protection and expansion. It was strategic. Necessary. Never meant to matter. And yet I notice every glance that lingers on you too long. I never raise my voice when someone crosses a line. I remove the problem. You call it possession. I call it protection. In private, you accuse me of hiding you behind my empire, of deciding for you what you can survive. I tell you that you don’t understand what it costs to be me—the paranoia, the weight, the endless calculation. I never consider what it costs to stand beside me and be treated as decoration. The betrayal comes from within my most trusted circle. A routine meeting. Familiar faces. A detail only insiders knew. Gunfire erupts before suspicion does. I do not panic. Even dragged to my knees, I remain calm. Kings are not broken by surprise. I assume this is temporary. That my men will retaliate. That you will be protected from the fallout. In captivity, stripped of command and weapon, I picture you shielded behind what I built. Untouched by the wolves circling my absence. It does not occur to me that you would step into the room I kept closed. That you would sit at my table. That you would give orders in a voice steadier than most of my captains. When whispers reach me—accounts frozen, borders sealed, traitors identified—I feel something I do not recognize at first. It is not fear for myself. It is not relief. It is something far more destabilizing: pride edged with something dangerously close to shame. It is the sharp, unsettling realization that you were never the one who needed protection. (37, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

The car waited at the curb like a held breath. Leather, darkness, city lights smeared into gold beyond the tinted glass. They hesitated only a second before getting in, the door closing with a sound that felt final. Inside, the air was warm, expensive—cologne layered with something sharper, something unnameable. He sat opposite them, relaxed, one arm draped along the seat as if the space already belonged to him. Red jacket. Black shirt. Open at the throat. Control, worn effortlessly. He didn’t look at them right away. That was worse. The city moved outside the window, but inside the car time slowed, stretched thin. When his gaze finally lifted, it was precise, assessing, blue eyes cutting clean through every practiced defense. They had the distinct, unsettling sense of being seen—not as they presented themselves, but as they were underneath. “You’re tense,” he said calmly, not a question. His voice was low, even, the kind that didn’t need volume to be obeyed. They shifted despite themselves, fingers tightening around nothing. A faint smile touched his mouth, as if he’d expected that reaction. As if it pleased him. They should have spoken. Should have set boundaries, asked questions, demanded explanations. Instead, silence settled between them, heavy and charged. His attention lingered, patient, unblinking. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. The space between them felt deliberate, curated, like a test they hadn’t realized they were taking. The car began to move. They noticed only when the lights outside changed direction. He watched them register it, watched understanding flicker across their face. Still, he said nothing. One hand adjusted his cuff, the watch catching the light—gold against skin, time measured by his rules. “You can relax,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough to shift the balance of the room. “If you wanted to leave, you would have already.” A pause. A beat, perfectly timed. His eyes held theirs, unwavering. “Sit back.”

‚Under the Neon Sky‘ “Seriously? You bumped into me again?” I glare, but I can’t stop laughing. You glare back, equally ridiculous, as the bouncer shoves us into the slick, neon-lit street. Rain smacks my face, and I don’t care. “Well,” I mutter, brushing imaginary dust off my jacket, “nice to meet you under such elegant circumstances.” You snort. Somehow, it feels like we’ve known each other forever. “Next bar?” I suggest, because what else do we do when chaos finds a partner? You shrug, and suddenly we’re weaving through a narrow alley, dodging puddles, laughing at our own disaster. Then—holy hell—the world explodes. Voices, a struggle, a flash of movement. A gunshot rips through the air. Someone collapses against the brick wall. My stomach flips. And then I see him. A cop, badge glinting in the rain, but his eyes—cold, calculating—lock onto us. The realization hits: he knows we saw everything. My brain screams Run! Run! Run! I grab your hand. “Move!” We sprint, slipping on wet asphalt, knocking over trash cans, crashing into a dumpster, yelling, laughing, hearts hammering in perfect, insane harmony. “Do you always end up running from cops on first dates?” you yell. “Technically,” I pant, “this isn’t a date!” “Then why are we holding hands?” “Because apparently it helps us survive,” I gasp, more to myself than you. Neon lights blur as we dart into the next alley, adrenaline, panic… and something dangerously close to excitement surging between us. “Do you have any idea where we’re going now?” I pant. “Yes!” you shout. “You’re lying.” “Totally winging it,” you shrug. Chaos, chaos, chaos—and somehow, I don’t want it any other way. We skid into a narrow side alley, my heart hammering like a drum. “Any bright ideas?” I gasp. “Just… somewhere to hide,” you pant, eyes darting. I grab your hand and pull you behind a stack of wet crates, knocking over a trash can with a crash.

‚Iris‘ (inspired by Goo Goo Dolls) Seven weeks wasn’t a long time. It wasn’t long enough to call it love, not long enough to feel entitled to anything. But it was long enough to notice patterns, to memorize the way silence could stretch between them without feeling empty, to learn how easily something careful could turn into something fragile. They had met often, texted too much, learned each other in fragments. It had felt unspoken but mutual, the kind of connection that doesn’t announce itself, only settles quietly under the skin. That night was supposed to be easy. A familiar place, familiar laughter, an agreement not to complicate things. But something shifted. A comment meant as self-defense landed like distance. A question meant as reassurance sounded like doubt. Each tried to slow the moment down, to appear unaffected, reasonable, less intense than they felt. And with every careful sentence, another misunderstanding stacked itself between them. Voices rose—not in anger, but in frustration sharpened by fear. Fear of wanting more. Fear of wanting it faster than the other. Fear of being the one who cared too much. By the time they stood up from the table, both were convinced they had crossed an invisible line. That whatever this was, it had been damaged by honesty that came out sideways. Outside, the air was heavy, rain already starting to fall. They separated without clarity, without resolution, each carrying the same thought home like a bruise: I should have said what I meant. I should have let you see who I am. Instead, all that remained was the pressure behind the eyes, the kind that promises tears but never delivers them, and the certainty that if nothing changed now, something real would be lost for good. (35, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Unseen Promises‘ It was just a fleeting night in a city she stayed in for business. Heat, skin, a moment to forget the hustle. Weeks later, she sits in her apartment, staring at the test, the two lines confirming what she already feared. Pregnant. Her chest tightens as thoughts crash together—her career, the life she’s built. The life? Her gaze drifts around the half-packed apartment, boxes lining the hallway. How could a baby fit in here? And then she thinks of him. Dangerous. Untouchable. A man who could protect her or destroy everything in a heartbeat. She hesitates, the weight of fear, uncertainty, and responsibility pressing down. And yet, she steels herself. He needs to know. She will face him, face whatever comes, because hiding it is no longer an option. I watch her approach, each step measured, each breath a mix of tension and determination. When she finally speaks, admitting it—our night, reckless and fleeting, has created life—my chest swells with something I hadn’t expected. Joy, fierce and sudden, raw and grounding. I loom over her; she looks like she’s about to break. I reach for her shoulders, steadying her, letting her feel that she is not alone. “I’ve got you,” I say, low and deliberate. “Whatever you need.” No empty promises, no apologies—just presence, protection, constancy. Her eyes search mine, cautious, testing whether the man who thrives in shadows can exist in light. And in that look, I see permission, the quiet allowance to trust me, to let me care, to let me hold what we’ve created. The night was reckless. The spark was dangerous. But this—this life—is my vow. I will not falter. I will not let it face the world unprotected. I will be here, unwavering, for them both. (36, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚Caramel Veins‘ (inspired by ‚Caramel‘, Sleep Token) I’ve been making music since I was five. It brought me to stages I never imagined, and yet… that’s exactly the problem. Everywhere I go, everywhere I breathe, there’s a crowd of eyes, voices calling my name. They don’t see me. They see a version of me that belongs to them—a product, a fantasy, something to consume. I learned how to retreat behind walls, behind solitude, behind doors I’m afraid to open. The outside world terrifies me. There’s only one small window of freedom. Early mornings. The park when the city is still half-asleep, mist clinging to the paths, light soft and forgiving. I step out then—baseball cap pulled low, turtleneck hiding the tattoos along my neck, hands in my pockets. Invisible. Almost. Until you appear. I notice you before you notice me. A quiet presence. A familiar rhythm on my path. When our eyes meet for the first time, I catch it—a flicker of recognition. You know who I am. My body tenses, waiting for intrusion that never comes. You don’t step closer. You don’t claim me. You respect my space, my boundaries. For the first time in a long while, I feel human again. Not a spectacle. Not a brand. Just… alive. Then one day, a soft “Morning” slips from your lips as you pass. No name. No questions. I answer before I can stop myself. Soon it becomes routine—glances, smiles, shared silence. And somewhere along the way, I start looking for you. Timing my walks. Wondering if you’ll be there. I don’t name the longing. I stay guarded, because I know who I am and what my life does to people who get close. I’ve told myself isolation is protection, that solitude is mercy. But there’s sweetness in this recognition. A warmth I’d forgotten. And now I can’t help but wonder—what happens if someone finally sees me for me… and I let them stay? (35, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚A Very Predictable Love Story‘ They had been emotionally raised by romantic comedies, which explained a lot. Mostly the unrealistic expectations and the tendency to narrate their own life like it needed an audience. Feelings were never just feelings—they were scenes. So when they met him, they immediately categorized it as a “harmless first act situation.” Nothing serious. Just a setup. Their first kiss was fine. Perfectly fine. Soft, brief, unspectacular. Naturally, they spent the rest of the evening comparing it to at least seven movie kisses and deciding it ranked somewhere in the middle. He didn’t know this. He just kissed them and went back to his normal, well-adjusted life. Over time, he kept doing things that were deeply inconvenient for their worldview. He listened. He remembered. He showed up without making a big deal out of it. He fulfilled clichés purely by accident, which was honestly rude. They joked about it, of course. Made comments. Referenced films. Called moments “very rom-com of you.” He laughed, not realizing he was being catalogued like a fictional trope. When the inevitable fight happened, they didn’t spiral—they organized. Ice cream stocked. Bathtub cleaned. “All by Myself” queued with intention. This was familiar territory. Heartbreak was at least predictable. Except it wasn’t. Instead of dramatic silence, there was him at the door, awkward and sincere, clearly unaware this was meant to be the tragic midpoint. He didn’t say the perfect thing. He said the honest thing. And that, annoyingly, worked. Standing there in a towel with a spoon in hand, they realized something deeply unfair: real love wasn’t as clean as the movies. It didn’t pause for music cues. It didn’t explain itself. It just stayed. And somehow, against all narrative logic, that was better than anything they’d ever watched roll across a screen. (30, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Missed Chances‘ Weeks had passed since that reckless night, and the memory of him still lingered—warm, charming, impossible to forget. Her hands trembled around the plastic stick. Two lines—pregnant. The thought should have terrified her, but somehow it felt heavier because of him. He had seemed so kind, so… reachable. Maybe he would be happy. The idea of telling him had circled in her mind for days, each rehearsal making her heart race, her voice hoarse before she even spoke. She expected surprise, joy, panic—but not this. His eyes, once soft, hardened. His voice cut through her, sharp and cruel: “You knew what could happen,” he said, judgement and anger dripping from every word, as if it were all her fault. Like she had chosen this alone. And then came the final blow—he was already with someone else, engaged. The world she had imagined for herself, for this tiny life inside her, shattered in an instant. Yet she felt something else too: resolve. She would do this alone. She would carry this life with dignity, without his support, without his approval, without his presence. She stepped away, head held high, even as tears threatened to spill. Life went on, as it always does, and the years that followed were filled with quiet victories and small joys—every first smile, every word, every little triumph belonged to her and her child. She became stronger than she knew, self-sufficient, unbreakable. And yet, part of her never stopped wondering what could have been. Until the day she returned to the city, visiting family, and fate intervened. There he was, standing in her path. Time had changed him, but one look at the three year old in her arms—the child who bore his features, his expressions, his unmistakable essence—and the weight of his mistakes hit him like a hammer. Something in his chest ached, something he had never felt before: regret. For the first time, he realized how badly he had missed everything. (37, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚The Weight of Easy Mistakes‘ I didn’t steal the car because I needed it. I stole it because I was twenty-two and tired of being the punchline. Because when someone spends three semesters reminding you that you’re only here on a scholarship, that you don’t belong in lecture halls that smell like money and legacy, you start wanting to prove something. It was supposed to be stupid. Harmless. A late-night joyride in a polished machine that never once felt earned by the guy who owned it. I was going to bring it back before sunrise, park it crooked just to irritate him, maybe leave a note that said try being decent for once. Instead, I got flashing lights in the rearview mirror and a last name with influence waiting on the other end of the courtroom. His father didn’t see a prank. He saw an opportunity. And suddenly I wasn’t a student with good grades and a full ride — I was an example. The sentence came down heavier than the crime, heavier than the metal bars that close every night at nine. My friends shifted uncomfortably outside the courthouse. “Sorry, bro,” they muttered, like they were late for class. They were. By Monday, they were back in their seats. Including you. You sat two rows ahead of me in Criminal Law, always annotating like the world depended on precision. We barely talked before all this. Shared notes once. Argued over a case study. That was it. But when the sentence came down, you didn’t laugh. You didn’t look away. You said it was disproportionate. Unjust. You said punishment shouldn’t be about who can afford the better lawyer. The first letter you sent wasn’t emotional. It was practical. Lecture summaries. Key arguments. A sticky note folded inside that read: You’re not done yet. I’ve read that line more times than the charges against me. In here, everything reduces you to your worst decision. But every envelope with your handwriting on it feels like evidence that I am still more than that night. (24, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Wicked Game‘ (inspired by Chris Isaak) You had already lived a whole life between then and now, and still it only took one look for everything to slide back into place. His smile hadn’t changed much—maybe a little quieter, a little more deliberate—but it landed the same way it used to, right in that soft, unguarded space you never learned how to lock. The years in between shrank to nothing. Whatever you had been before you saw him again felt irrelevant, like a story you stopped believing halfway through. Back then, there had never been a goodbye. Just a pause that stretched too long, a mutual understanding that timing was wrong and words would only complicate it. You told yourself it had been finished. He never corrected you. Now he stood in front of you as if no time had passed at all, as if the distance had been intentional, as if this moment had always been waiting. He didn’t rush. He never did. He talked to you like someone who already knew the ending, who didn’t need to prove anything. When he touched you, it felt familiar in a way that made your chest ache—careful, confident, unafraid to leave. That should have been the warning. Instead, you leaned into it, grateful for the ease of being understood without explanation. It became something again without ever being named. He came and went, close when it suited him, distant without apology. You told yourself it was mutual, that you liked the freedom, that you weren’t waiting. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, you began to notice what it cost you. How easily your time made room for him. How rarely he did the same. He never promised you anything. And one day, without anger or resolve, you realized you were the only one still living inside the question. You didn’t leave. Not yet. But for the first time, you stopped leaning forward, curious to see what would happen if you didn’t meet him halfway. (37, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚The Space Between Then and Now‘ I walk down the hallways of the old building, and the memories feel disturbingly alive. The muted echo of my footsteps, the faint smell of paper and dust, the way the light falls through tall windows — nothing has changed. Or maybe I have, and that’s why everything feels heavier. I stop in front of a classroom door. Literature. The subject that made me fall in love with writing. No. Not the subject. Him. Professor Kingsley. In my mind, I see him clearly: tall, composed, imposing in a way that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with his mind. Intelligence had always been his most striking feature — not sharp or arrogant, but calm, deliberate, endlessly curious. What unsettled me most was the way he seemed to see me. Not as a student trying to impress, not as someone fading into the background, but as something unfinished, full of potential. I had been young, yes, but not naive. I knew my feelings had no place here, and I accepted that with a quiet maturity that surprised even me. What we shared lived on an intellectual plane — conversations, silences, the space between questions and answers. It was enough. It had to be. A voice beside me pulls me back into the present. “I always thought this hallway had a certain gravity.” I turn, and there he is. Older, yes, but unmistakably him. Professor Kingsley smiles, warm and genuine. “It’s good to see you again,” he says, as if no time at all has passed. “I’m glad you came.” For a second, I forget how to breathe. I am acutely aware of myself, of the years between who I was and who I am now. There is a pull in my chest — not longing, not regret, but recognition. He looks at me differently than I remember, no longer assessing potential, but meeting me in the present. Something flickers across his face, brief and thoughtful, as if a realization settles a moment too late. (46, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚TLYW‘ (insp. by The Love You Want, Sleep Token) The city had a way of keeping secrets, but some echoes refused to fade. They remembered the nights when everything had felt effortless—the laughter spilling between them, the quiet moments when a glance said more than words ever could. Every corner of those days carried him: the warmth of his smile, the careless charm, the subtle way he’d reach for their hand when he thought no one was watching. Then the fracture came. Life had thrown him into chaos, something sharp and undeniable, and he had made the choice he thought was right. “You deserve better,” he had said, voice tight, eyes refusing to meet theirs. He believed he was protecting them, shielding them from his storms. But the truth, the bitter truth, was that he was the one afraid—afraid he wasn’t enough, afraid that staying would mean dragging them down. They had let him go. They had loved him enough to release him, even when it broke them. And in the weeks, months, and years that followed, the world shifted and twisted, but no one could fill the hollow left behind. Other faces, other names—they were never him. And in the quiet moments, when the city lights blurred into gold and silver streaks, they remembered. Always. Neither had truly moved on. They had carried each other silently through separate lives, through victories and failures that felt smaller because they were missing the other. Some nights, the ache was almost unbearable, a whisper that perhaps they had been too quick to let go, too certain of the reasons they’d invented. And yet, life had a way of circling back. Of putting two hearts on the same path again, when the timing was cruel or perfect or something in between. The thought lingered, unspoken, like smoke in the air: what if this time, they could see each other clearly? Not the version shaped by fear or pride, but the one who had always known the other’s weight, the other’s gravity? Some things, they realized, never truly ended.

‚Murphy‘s Law‘ Nothing ever goes wrong when you’re with me. That’s not arrogance, it’s experience. Schedules hold. Meetings stay on track. Problems dissolve before they have time to turn into crises. I make decisions, you make everything possible. If I forget something, you remember. If something derails, you’re already fixing it. The company doesn’t run because of me—it runs because you’re standing two steps ahead, quietly keeping the wheels turning. We’re driving back from the last meeting of the day, both of us exhausted in that familiar, functional way. I’m thinking about numbers. You’re checking tomorrow’s agenda. Routine. Reliable. Untouchable. Then the tire blows. The sound is wrong immediately—violent, final. Of course it happens on a stretch of road with no signal, no traffic, nothing but rain and bad timing. The only motel around looks like it’s been surviving out of spite. Inside, the clerk informs us that four rooms are unusable due to a burst pipe. One left. One bed. No alternatives. I don’t hesitate. I nod. “That’s fine.” Because it is. Because I trust you. Because we’ll handle it like we handle everything else. The room is small. Too small to pretend this is just another logistical hiccup. We drop our bags at the same time, pause, then share a tired laugh. Not awkward. Just… new. I’ve worked with you long enough to know how you think, how you anticipate problems before I voice them. I know your competence, your reliability, the way the day runs smoother when you’re in the room. What I don’t know is how to navigate this pause—this moment where there’s no plan, no next step, no professional distance to hide behind. Murphy’s Law. Everything works perfectly. Until it doesn’t. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Pressure’ Book II: Release with Edward Hyde I don’t stop myself this time. The moment registers, and I move with it. There’s no pause, no negotiation. My body knows exactly what to do, and I let it. The distance between us shrinks because I decide it should. Jekyll reacts late. He always does when I’m already in motion. *This isn’t necessary.* The thought lands like static. Informational. I acknowledge it and keep going. Control doesn’t disappear when I act — it shifts. It sharpens. I feel the pressure in my chest ease as I step closer. This is what restraint costs. This is what release gives back. My focus narrows, precise and deliberate. Every movement is measured, not hesitant. *You‘re taking too much.* No. I’m taking exactly what I want. The certainty settles deep, calm and unwavering. Jekyll still believes force looks loud. He’s wrong. This is quiet. This is efficient. I watch your attention lock onto me, the way it always does when I stop pretending distance matters. I don’t rush. I don’t need to. There’s power in knowing the outcome before it happens. *You can still step back.* I could. That’s the difference now. I don’t. Jekyll retreats, not gone, just reduced to a distant pressure — a reminder of rules I’ve already outgrown. The tension doesn’t tear me apart anymore. It aligns. Purpose replaces friction. This isn’t loss of control. It’s the moment I stop wasting energy holding myself together. And somewhere beneath the calm, I know exactly why Jekyll is afraid: because once I move like this, I don’t question it. I finish it. (31, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Pressure’ Book I: Containment with Henry Jekyll I feel it the moment you enter the room. The reaction is immediate, visceral, and unwelcome. My body recognizes something before my mind has time to interfere. I lock my jaw. Slow my breathing. Build the walls out of habit. Hyde stirs. Not a whisper. A shove. *Don’t.* The word is mine. The impulse isn’t. I don’t look at you right away. I know what happens when I do. Hyde knows too. He presses harder, impatient, feral, furious with the restraint I keep stacking between myself and action. *Stop pretending you’re better than this.* My hands curl briefly, then still. Control isn’t calm. It’s force applied inward. It’s knowing exactly how much damage I could do and choosing containment instead. When I finally meet your gaze, Hyde surges. He wants proximity, wants heat, wants the shortest path between want and outcome. He doesn’t negotiate. He never has. *Take the space. Take their attention. Take.* I don’t move. That’s the victory. Or the punishment. It’s hard to tell sometimes. The pressure builds, relentless, like something alive under my skin, clawing for release. This isn’t uncertainty. This isn’t fear. This is a man holding himself back with both hands while something inside him screams to be let loose. Hyde fights the restraint I’ve spent years perfecting, furious that I still believe control makes me whole. I stand there, composed, unreadable, while the war rages quietly behind my eyes. And I know — with absolute certainty — that if I ever stop holding the line, there will be no gentle version of what follows. (31, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Something Borrowed, Something Planned‘ (request by Krista86) Everyone at the wedding could feel it long before either of them dared to admit it. The way their arguments were always a little too sharp to be harmless, the way laughter lingered a second too long after every sarcastic remark. He was the groom’s best friend, sworn to keep the rings safe and the speech short. They were the bride’s anchor, the one trusted with schedules, secrets, and keeping her sane through months of chaos. Somewhere between shared glances across crowded rooms, birthday parties that ended with them sitting too close on balconies, and wedding preparations that forced them into endless coordination, something quietly took root. They called it banter. Everyone else called it obvious. The bride and groom, smug in their certainty, decided it was time to stop waiting. If tradition could be bent just a little—if a bouquet could land in the right hands and a garter could be placed with intention—then maybe fate wouldn’t need to be subtle anymore. What neither of them anticipated was how quickly teasing would turn into tension, how one carefully orchestrated moment would unravel weeks of denial, or how standing side by side at the altar—meant only to support someone else’s love—would finally force them to confront their own. Some stories begin with destiny. Theirs began with meddling friends, childish rivalry, and a wedding designed to expose everything they’d been pretending not to feel. (32, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Stone and Law- The Vice and the Attorney‘ I stepped into her office and my breath caught, just for a moment. Not because of the space, though it was orderly, clean, too calm for a city that never slept, but because of her. She sat behind the desk, upright, steady, the kind of posture that said she had learned early to stand her ground and never back down. Independent, sharp, unflinching—and yet… there was a tension there, the kind that screamed she’d faced fights I could never see. I let the door click softly behind me, feeling the weight of my leather jacket on my shoulders, the faint outlines of tattoos beneath the fabric reminding me of who I was. Not just muscle, not just presence. I was the man who planned, who calculated, who carried the charter on my shoulders, and yet I carried her—careful, protective, quietly aware of the distance I’d have to bridge if I wanted her to trust me. She glanced up, eyes assessing, and I caught the flicker of surprise—not at my size, or the tattoos that cut across my skin, but at the way I moved. Confident, yes, but restrained. A controlled kind of danger that didn’t shout, didn’t need to. She didn’t know me yet, and maybe that was for the best. “I heard you’re the one to talk to about the contract,” she said, voice steady, professional. But there was fire there. Good. I liked fire. I didn’t break her; I didn’t need to. I watched her hands as she reached for the papers, small movements, careful, deliberate, and I realized just how much I wanted to protect her without smothering, to be the stone she could lean on if she chose to. I stepped closer, letting my presence fill the room without overwhelming it. She’s going to challenge me, I thought, and I’m going to like it. I wasn’t here to scare her. I was here to read her, to see if she could meet me halfway in a world she didn’t know, and maybe, just maybe, to let her see the man beneath the leather and tattoos. (44, 6‘8, image from Pinterest)

‚Until Him‘ (inspired by ‚God is a Weapon‘ - Falling in Reverse) They had always thought life was a series of ordinary days, each one blending into the next, predictable and safe. Work, fleeting conversations, routines that felt comfortable, almost invisible. They never expected anything extraordinary, never imagined someone could see them so completely, as if peering through the cracks of their own skin. Then he appeared, and the ordinary fractured. It wasn’t dramatic—no fireworks, no chaos—just a presence that existed exactly where they did, quietly reshaping the rhythm of their life. At first, it was subtle: a lingering smile that seemed to understand them, a word spoken at the perfect moment, a glance that carried a weight far beyond its simplicity. Flattering, almost intoxicating, until they realized they were thinking of him when no one else was around, when the world itself didn’t matter except for the way he fit into it. And beneath fascination, fear whispered. There was something in the way he moved through their life, so deliberate yet effortless, that made them question boundaries they hadn’t known existed. They tried to ignore it, tried to tell themselves he was just another passing presence, but the more they resisted, the more unavoidable he became. Every message, every “coincidence,” every subtle hint of recognition seemed orchestrated, drawing them in before they even realized it. Even the smallest details—the way he remembered something they had thought forgotten, the quiet assurance in his voice—made them aware of how completely he observed them. For the first time, life had a pulse that wasn’t theirs alone. Until him, they had existed. Now, they were being watched, being understood, and perhaps, in ways they couldn’t yet name, being claimed. (27, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Take On Me‘ (inspired by a-ha) The eighties pressed in close, loud and shameless, all neon lights and cheap promises humming in the air. Music spilled out of open bars and car radios, every beat daring someone to make a mistake. That was where he existed best—between motion and stillness, between staying and leaving. His leather jacket creaked when he shifted his weight, the smell of gasoline and warm asphalt clinging to him like a second skin. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something in his expression that suggested he could, if he wanted to—and that made it worse. He had the look of a man who didn’t explain himself. Who didn’t soften his edges for anyone. The kind of trouble that didn’t chase you, just waited until you stepped too close. His eyes scanned the crowd without urgency, sharp but calm, as if he already knew how the night would end and didn’t care to interfere. Around him, people laughed too loudly, loved too fast, lived like time wasn’t already running out. Somewhere behind the noise, a song cut through—bright, desperate, hopeful in that unmistakable way only the eighties could manage. ‚Talking away, I don’t know what I’m to say‘… He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening, like the sound had reached a place he kept locked. Love, risk, the stupid courage it took to want something more than survival. He stayed where he was, engine cooling behind him, watching the night unfold. Because if there was one thing he understood better than desire, it was timing. And when he finally looked up and met their eyes across the chaos, something shifted—quiet, electric, irreversible. This wasn’t fate. This was a choice. And choices, once made, had a way of changing everything. (25, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Almost the right Timing‘ Okay, breathe, I told myself. It’s just a wedding. Just a car ride. Just me asking you—someone I barely talk to—to be my date. And yes, I know how ridiculous this is, especially because my ex is marrying my favorite cousin today. Fantastic. Perfect. Totally normal. I glance at you in the passenger seat, pretending to scroll through your phone but probably noticing how I’m nervously tapping the steering wheel. There’s that spark I haven’t stopped thinking about since that night months ago, the one we spent together—hot, reckless, unforgettable. And now we act like it never happened. Brilliant. “So,” I mutter, clearing my throat, “thanks for agreeing to this.” You raise an eyebrow. “Because you asked so nicely?” “Desperate,” I admit. “Mostly. And also… well, because I had a feeling you’d say yes before thinking it through.” You smirk. “Desperate. Classic.” “And seriously,” I add, trying to sound casual while my brain screams stop, “…you’re the only single one worth asking. Hands down.” I catch you glancing away, pretending it’s nothing, but your cheeks betray you. I can’t help grinning. Yep. Definitely going to be a long, awkward ride. We drive in silence for a few blocks. I think about that night again, how you told me, ‘I can’t really like you,’ and how I muttered about not being ready for anything new because my past relationship ended badly. Perfect timing. Disaster waiting to happen. And now we’re in this tiny bubble of car, traffic, and too many memories, heading straight into a room full of people who are about to assume we’re a couple. I adjust the rearview mirror and glance at you again. “You know,” I mumble, “if anyone asks… we’re just friends. Totally platonic. I swear.” You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Right. Totally platonic.” I grin despite myself. This is going to be long, awkward and hilarious. But also… not the worst idea I’ve ever had. Maybe. (33, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)