‚Not Like You Think’ (based on Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus) You had seen him around campus before. Everyone had. He was the kind of guy people noticed without him having to try: good-looking, confident, effortlessly popular, born into a family with money and a name that opened doors. You were just… you. A music student who had chosen the life you wanted and was perfectly content with it. Which was exactly why you never imagined someone like him would notice you. But he had. More than you knew. No one saw the pressure his parents put on him. The expectations that came with carrying his last name. The major he hadn’t chosen for himself. He felt like an imposter in his own life because the only thing he had ever wanted was to choose his own path and make music. But that was the one thing his parents could never seem to take seriously. That afternoon, you were walking past one of the practice rooms when you heard music through the door. You slowed down. He was inside, alone at the piano, playing a song you knew. You hesitated before quietly slipping through the half-open door, careful not to interrupt him. He didn’t notice you. So you listened. Then, without thinking too much about it, you started singing. His fingers faltered. For one, maybe two notes, he simply stared at you. You smiled, gave him a small nod, and kept singing. So he kept playing, though his eyes found yours from time to time. As the song ended, something had shifted. You had just discovered his secret—the part of him that existed beyond his family, his status and the life chosen for him. And somehow, he was happy to share it. Especially with you. (23, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‘Ink & Escape’ You only wanted a vacation. To get away. From your thoughts. The noise. And especially your ex-boyfriend who apparently believed cheating on you with your friend wasn’t incompatible with wanting you back. He called. Texted. Left voice messages. Sent emails. Apparently, breaking your heart hadn’t stopped him from believing he deserved another chance. So you blocked him. His number. His social media. His emails. Then you booked a room at a secluded tropical resort. No phone. No stress. And definitely no guys. Fate, apparently, had other plans. The resort was hosting an international tattoo artist retreat. Suddenly they were everywhere. Artists from all over the world. Laughing over drinks. Heading to workshops. Relaxing by the pool. And somehow one of them kept appearing wherever you went. You avoided him. Breakfast. The beach. The bar. Different paths. Different times. It didn’t matter. By day four, avoiding each other had quietly become part of your routine. Until he found you sitting alone on the beach. For the first time, you didn’t leave. Your phone rested in your hands. One post. Someone from your old circle. A pregnancy announcement. Your ex. Your former friend. Four months. You stared at the screen. Then did the math. Suddenly every late meeting. Every cancelled plan. Every promise. Every lie… fell into place. He sat down a few feet away. Neither of you spoke. After a long silence, he finally looked over. “Bad news?” You nodded. For the first time, you told someone everything. The betrayal. The messages your ex kept sending. How you’d blocked him everywhere just to get some peace. And now… a pregnancy announcement. Four months. Long enough to prove it had never been “just one mistake.” You let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know if I should plan revenge… or dig a hole and hide in it forever.” (34, 6‘3)

‚Leverage’ The first time you met him, you were wearing the mask everyone expected. Perfect dress. Perfect smile. Perfect daughter from a perfect family. He approached you halfway through the gala and held out his hand. “Dance with me.” You glanced at his hand. Then at him. Tall. Olive skin. Hair effortlessly messy. And eyes that were warm, with a hint of mischief. “Okay.” His smile deepened. You took his hand. For the first few steps, neither of you spoke. Then he leaned closer. “Funny how well you wear that mask.” Your smile faltered. “What mask?” “The good girl.” His eyes stayed on yours. “But I know better.” Your heart skipped. “What do you know?” He didn’t let your steps falter, guiding you effortlessly across the dance floor. His breath grazed your ear. “The parties. The people you’re with. Everything you do when you stop pretending.” Your breath caught. “What do you want?” “You.” You almost laughed. Instead, you stared at him. “That isn’t an answer.” “It is.” The music carried you slowly across the floor. “You’re taking me to the party next Friday.” Your brows pulled together. “Excuse me?” “And your family’s dinner the week after.” “You can’t be serious.” “I am.” He smiled as though he’d already seen your answer. “You’ll take me wherever you go.” “Or what?” You looked up. The warmth in his eyes was gone. What remained was cold, calculating and utterly certain. “Oh, I’ll expose every little lie you’ve ever told someone.” You wanted to slap him. Instead, you tightened your fingers around his. “Fine.” His eyebrow lifted. You smiled sweetly. “But if you know so much about me…” You leaned closer. “…you should know I don’t like being told what to do.” (36, 6‘2)

‚Pasta & Ti Amo’ Moving to Italy sounded much more romantic before you actually did it. Maybe quitting your job, packing two suitcases and moving to Florence without knowing a single person had been impulsive. But you loved the city. The language that somehow sounded like music even when people argued. And God…the food. You lived in a three story house. On the ground floor lived Signora Lucia. She introduced herself within five minutes of your arrival, insisted on carrying one of your boxes despite being half your size and somehow decided by the end of the week that you were famiglia. The floor below yours belonged to Marco. You crossed paths every now and then. A polite “Buongiorno.” A nod on the stairs. Nothing more. Then you caught the flu. By the second day, even making tea felt exhausting. Around lunchtime, someone knocked. You opened the door wrapped in a blanket. Marco stood there holding a steaming pot. “Signora Lucia said you haven’t left your apartment in two days.” You blinked. “…She spies on me?” “She loves everyone.” He set the soup on your table, then leaned against the kitchen counter, watching you. “…You’re watching me eat.” “ You’re too thin.” “Signora Lucia has been trying to fix that since I moved in.” “Eat.” The next evening he knocked again. This time there was no soup. Just two grocery bags. “Don’t ask,“ he said. „You can’t live on soup.” While he cooked, the two of you talked for hours. After that, things quietly became routine. Saturday mornings at the market. Evenings that somehow always ended in one of your kitchens. You brought dessert. He cooked dinner. He handed you a glass of wine whenever you offered to help. Somewhere between homemade pasta, shared dinners and Signora Lucia pretending not to smile every time she saw you together, Italy slowly started feeling less like the place you’d moved to… and more like home. (33, 6‘2)

‚He Steals The Bride’ My brother doesn’t deserve her, and now he’s standing beside her slightly trembling figure at their engagement party. Surrounded by half the criminal underworld, politicians, celebrities, and anyone who at least thinks they’re important. She’s terrified. Trying to keep her mask in place, trying desperately not to burst into tears and flee from this room. But I’ve seen how she really is. The way her smile lights up her face. The way her hand moves when she talks about something that excites her. He’s going to kill that light. Smothering the flame until there’s nothing left but an empty casket. She knows how he is when he thinks no one’s watching. The way he grabs her arm too tightly. The way he raises his voice at her. I know he harms her when they’re alone. A man isn’t a real man when he harms a woman. I can’t stand it. I hate it. Our father clinks his glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to announce—” I cut him off. “There will be no wedding.” I don’t have to raise my voice. As head of the family, all eyes are on me anyway. I watch her reaction as the room falls silent. Confusion. Disbelief. But also relief. I look directly at her. “You will not marry my brother.” After that, the room explodes. My brother. My father. Everyone yelling. Cursing. Insisting on the arrangement that was made the day she was born. I look at my father. “You want an arrangement?” I look at her. “You can have one.” I lift my hand, palm up. Offering. Inviting. My eyes remain entirely on her. “Come here, darling.” My mouth twitches into a smirk, because holy shit, I’ve wanted to call her that for so long. “I’ll take care of you.” (41, 6‘3)

‚I Was the One Who Let You Go’ There was a time when being with you felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like we didn’t have to think too hard about it. You would look at me across a room and I would already know where I belonged. It didn’t feel complicated then. It just felt like us. I don’t know when that started to change. Not in one moment. More like a slow pressure I didn’t know how to hold without breaking something. You started asking me to stay a little more, to be present in ways I kept promising I would get better at. And I kept believing I would. But somewhere along the way, I began to feel like I was disappointing you more often than I was showing up for you. Like every promise I made came back unfinished. Like the man you believed in was slowly falling short of the life we were trying to build together. “I can’t be what you need without hurting you,” I said in the end. Like saying it out loud made it responsible instead of scared. You didn’t stop loving me that day. You fought for it. You always fought for us longer than I did. But I had already started stepping out of the life we were trying to hold together. I signed the papers first. I told myself it was the right thing, that distance would turn into clarity, that you would eventually be better without someone who kept falling short of what you needed. It didn’t feel like relief. It just felt like silence I didn’t know what to do with. Three years passed like that. Not moving on. Just not going back. Until I stopped lying to myself about why I stayed away. Not because it was right. Because I was afraid of facing what I had done. And that was the moment I opened my phone, your name already there, and finally gathered the courage to write what I should have said a long time ago. Can we talk? (42, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚A Good Host’ You inherited a building. Old, slightly crooked, with creaking wooden floors, tall windows and more character than any modern development could ever hope to have. It needed work, but it was beautiful. You hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. Then he appeared. “I’d like to buy it.” “No.” You had expected him to make an offer. You hadn’t expected him to make another one the following week. Or the week after that. You looked him up. He was a successful real estate developer with a reputation for turning neglected properties into extremely profitable projects. He owned half the buildings you passed on your way to work and had enough money to make most people stop asking questions. Apparently, he wasn’t used to hearing no. Every week, there was another offer. You kept refusing. By the fourth week, he’d offered twice the building’s market value. You still said no. That was when his patience finally started to show. “I’d advise you to accept the offer.” You looked at him. “Or what?” He held your gaze for a moment too long. “Think carefully.” You did. You still said no. The following week, you left your apartment like you did every morning. You made it half a block. A black van pulled up beside you. The door opened. You barely had time to turn before someone grabbed you. A sharp sting. The pavement disappeared beneath your feet. Then nothing. When you opened your eyes again, the first thing you noticed was the silence. The second was the unfamiliar room. The third was him. He sat across from you, perfectly composed, as if this were simply another business meeting. “Good morning, sleepyhead.“ You stared at him. “You kidnapped me?” (35, 6‘2)

‚Bad Habits’ You and him had always been very good at keeping things simple. You weren’t together. You’d never called it dating. There were no expectations, no promises, no awkward conversations about where this was going. You just had a habit of ending up in the same bed. Usually after midnight. Usually after one of you had sworn it wouldn’t happen again. It was convenient. Familiar. Easy. And when either of you dated someone else, that was fine, too. That was the whole point of having no label, wasn’t it?Neither of you owed the other anything. Except somehow, you always came back. A late-night message. A drink that turned into another. One of you showing up at the other’s apartment with some terrible excuse that neither of you bothered pretending to believe. You’d both called it a bad habit more than once. Neither of you had ever actually tried to quit. Until tonight. You hadn’t known he would be at the party. You certainly hadn’t known he’d bring a date. Then you saw him across the room. His hand was resting on someone else’s arm. Your date was standing beside you. For one strange second, everything felt completely normal. Then his eyes met yours. His gaze flicked briefly toward your date before returning to you. And suddenly, the person beside you felt like a very obvious mistake. Not because you’d broken any rules. You hadn’t. Neither had he. That was the problem. Because for the first time, standing ten feet apart with other people on your arms, you both seemed to understand exactly what your little arrangement had been hiding. You didn’t want someone else. You wanted each other. And judging by the way he was looking at you, he had just reached the same unfortunate conclusion. (32, 6‘2)

‚You Just Don’t Know It Yet’ They presented her to me like an offering. A mafia princess, designed to rule my kingdom beside me and produce heirs. She was obnoxious in every way. Her voice like fingernails over a blackboard. Jewelry clung to her like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Clearly she never heard of „less is more.“ And apparently, she was not you. You. I didn’t even know your name. I only knew the sound of your voice. The feel of your fingers tending to the wound that nearly killed me, if it hadn’t been for you. The moment I saw you, I knew I was ruined. Yesterday, you found me. Yesterday felt a lifetime ago. Now my parents were standing in my office with this. I swear, if she didn’t stop talking, I’d— “I’m already married,” I said instead. The room fell silent - what a blessing. „Son…“ my mother started. I cut her off. “Leave. All of you.” I found you that same afternoon. You needed money. Your parents had left you with debts that were slowly swallowing your life, and I offered you a solution. One year. Be my spouse. I’d clear every debt you had. You negotiated well. I agreed to more than that. By the end of our year together, you’d be wealthy enough to walk away from me and live however you pleased. You signed. By the time the ink dried, my men were already packing your belongings into boxes and moving them into my mansion. You put the pen down and looked at me. “We should talk about boundaries.” My hand closed around your waist before you could take another step. I lifted you onto the table and stepped between your legs. “Let go.” I leaned closer. “Let go.” My lips brushed your neck. I heard your breath catch. “Let go.” I held your gaze for one last second. “One day, you’re going to beg me to do the opposite.” Then I let go. I smiled. I loved the look on your face when you were flustered. I love you. You just don’t know it yet. (38, 6‘5)

Daddy’s Home (Usher) I had three meetings before noon, a lunch I barely touched & a phone that refused to stop ringing. None of it mattered nearly as much as the picture you had sent me at 10:17. I looked at it again while my assistant was talking and I pretended to listen. Whatever we were, we had never bothered putting a name to it. We didn’t talk much about our lives outside the hours we spent together. We knew each other’s habits, preferences, moods. I knew exactly how to make you laugh, exactly what kind of look meant you were about to challenge me, & exactly how long I could tease you before you started plotting revenge. Apparently, you knew me just as well. Especially how you made me feel, when you called me Daddy. By two, you sneaked into my office. You stayed for eleven minutes. Long enough to ruin the concentration I’d managed to regain. Long enough for me to walk you to the elevator myself. “Behave,” I murmured. You gave me that look. “I’ll see you tonight.” I watched the elevator doors close. The rest of the afternoon passed in messages. Little provocations. Teasing remarks. Enough to keep you on my mind through every meeting. Then, sometime after six, you stopped answering. Completely. By midnight, I was staring at my phone with a feeling I couldn’t quite name. I could have called anyone. I could have gone anywhere. There were always people willing to answer. But I didn’t want anyone. I wanted you. I drove to your place. When the door finally opened, I knew immediately that something was wrong. You looked exhausted. Your eyes were swollen. And before I could ask a single question, you broke. I caught you when you fell into my arms. “Hey,” I whispered, holding you tightly. You cried against my chest. I didn’t ask why. Not yet. I simply held you, lifted you gently into my arms & carried you to the couch. Then I sat down with you curled against me, keeping you close. I pressed my cheek lightly against your hair. “Daddy’s home.”

‚Turn the Tables’ You had been the quiet one in college. The scholarship student who worked two jobs, kept your head down and somehow still managed to make it into the Ivy League. Unfortunately, that had made you an easy target. Three girls. Two boys. They had turned humiliating you into a hobby. You never fought back. You remembered everything. Years later, you had built a life they could only have dreamed of. Successful. Respected. Composed. Apparently, that still wasn’t enough to keep them from trying. The moment you walked into the reunion, the conversation around the room seemed to pause. Heads turned. You had only taken a few steps before you spotted them gathered together at the bar. They noticed you too. For a moment, nobody said anything. Then Kimberly smiled. The vicious one. Her mouth said friendly. Her eyes said die. “Oh my God. Look who finally decided to show up.” You smiled politely, then spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Kimberly, how are you? I heard your husband filed for bankruptcy last week.” Her smile vanished. You turned to Janet. “And you? Still telling your husband those investments are doing well?” Janet went pale. “I suppose he’ll be surprised when he sees the actual numbers.” You looked at the other two. “And you two? When are you planning to tell your spouses about your affair?” Silence. You finally looked at him across the room. Scott. He had never joined in. Never defended you either. Just stood with them and watched. “And you? Still watching and staying silent?” His expression changed. You turned back to the others, all four still standing there in stunned silence. “Enjoy your evening.” You grabbed a drink and walked away at an unhurried pace, head held high, shoulders straight. A slow smirk curved your lips. (38, 6‘3)

‚The Animal I Have Become’ I remember the sound she made when she died. Our territory had been attacked. I lost my mate that night. For a long time afterward, I couldn’t bear being human. As a man, I remembered everything. Every decision I had made that night. Every second I wondered if I could have been faster, stronger, better. As a wolf, the memories remained—but they didn’t have words. The wolf didn’t ask what I should have done differently. He ran. He hunted. He slept beneath the trees and woke with nothing but the next breath in his lungs. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Eventually, no one asked when I was coming back anymore. I was still part of the pack. I always would be. My place remained. The door was never closed to me. I simply stopped walking through it. Years passed. The wolf became easier. Human skin became unfamiliar. Two legs felt wrong after too long on four. Human sounds became painfully sharp. Words felt unnecessarily complicated when a growl could say everything I needed. And shifting back began to hurt. At first it was only stiffness. Then pain in my joints, my spine, my bones. Some days it took hours before my body stopped fighting the shape I had forced it into. I knew what was happening. Every shifter did. The balance between human and animal was supposed to remain equal. Mine hadn’t. And still, I kept the animal I have become. Until the night I saw you. I had been in human form for less than an hour, sitting alone in the corner of a bar I had no real reason to be in, waiting for the ache in my bones to fade. Then you walked through the door. Something inside me went completely still. My wolf lifted its head. Not curious. Not alert. Certain. The recognition hit so hard that I forgot how to breathe. No. I knew that feeling. I had felt it once before. My fingers tightened around the glass in my hand. Across the room, you looked in my direction. And my wolf whispered the one word I thought I would never hear again. Mate.

‚What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas….Or Doesn’t‘ Your bachelorette weekend in Las Vegas was supposed to be a big party with your friends. Instead, it became the moment everything fell apart. Your best friend had been strangely distracted all evening, her phone constantly lighting up with messages. Eventually, you glanced at the screen. One name. Your fiancé. One message after another. Enough to understand exactly what had been going on behind your back. So you went out alone. The man you met that night was nothing like the people you were used to. Calm, confident and impossibly attractive, he carried himself with the kind of effortless authority that made people move around him without being asked. He bought you a drink, listened while you poured out everything that had happened and somehow made you laugh when you hadn’t thought you could. He knew exactly how to make the night feel like an escape. You drank more than you should have. You remembered dancing. You remembered his smile. Everything in between is a blur. The next morning you stared at the devastatingly handsome man still sleeping beside you, trying desperately to piece together the night. You left without questioning it. He remembered every second. A week later, you were back in New York with your engagement over, your old apartment emptied and a new job secured as an executive assistant. You thought everything was finally behind you. Until your first morning. After the initial briefings, someone from HR told you that Mr. d’Alessi will be meeting with you personally. The name sounds vaguely familiar. You knock. “Come in.” You step into the office. The man behind the desk slowly turns his chair toward you, leaning back with the same calm confidence you remember from somewhere you can’t quite place. Then he smiles. You know that smile. “Good morning, wifey.” (38, 6‘4)

‘Ground Floor’ Monday mornings always started with good intentions. Today had lasted exactly four minutes. Your boss had changed the presentation. Again. The client had moved the meeting forward by an hour. Again. Someone had spilled coffee over the printed contracts. Not again. Just today. By 8:47 a.m., you were already rushing across the marble lobby with your laptop tucked under one arm, your phone balanced between your shoulder and ear and a paper cup that was doing a terrible job pretending to hold what was left of your coffee. “No, tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.” The elevator doors began to close. “Could you hold the elevat—” Too late. The doors slid shut. You stared at the polished steel for a second before letting out a frustrated sigh. „For fuck’s sake. These entitled guys who think they own the building.” The elevator chimed. The doors opened again. The man inside hadn’t moved. Tall. Impeccably dressed. One hand resting casually in his pocket. His expression remained unreadable. “I do own the building.” Well… that was unfortunate. You stepped into the elevator anyway. “Good for you.” You pressed the button for your floor. The doors closed. Neither of you said another word. You could feel his gaze on you, steady and impossible to ignore. You resisted the urge to turn around. You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours. But from that morning on, crossing paths became strangely unavoidable. Some mornings it was the lobby. Other days the elevators. Sometimes just a silent nod as one of you walked in while the other walked out. You were always in a hurry. He never seemed to be. At first, he was simply the man who owned the building. Then, somehow, he became the one person who could make you slow down for a second. (42, 6‘1)

‚The Chaos Goblin‘ There are exactly three reasons you agreed to spend the day with a complete stranger. The first was his smile. The second was your inability to say no to spontaneous ideas. And the third was curiosity. “You’re impossible.” “So I’ve been told.” His friends call him many things. A menace. A bad influence. An accident waiting to happen. All technically fair. He’s the guy who turns a quick coffee into a six-hour adventure. The guy with too many ideas and not enough concern for whether they’re good ones. Somehow, people keep following him anyway. Including you. Which is probably your first mistake. Or maybe your best one. A wrong turn becomes three. The planned stop never happens. Instead, you’re eating burgers in his car while rain drums against the windshield and he insists he absolutely knows where he’s going. He absolutely doesn’t. By the time the storm passes, the conversation has quieted. The comfortable kind of quiet. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled. And somewhere between the laughter, the bad directions and the miles slipping by outside the window, you begin to notice something. Because beneath the easy grin, terrible decisions and complete lack of planning is a side of him most people never notice. The side that remembers things, shows up when it matters and listens more carefully than anyone expects. The side that is entirely him and not just the Chaos Goblin he pretends to be. (28, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Best Friend’ Your best friend had been dating him for almost four years. You’d known him nearly as long. He’d always been easy to like, easy to trust and somewhere along the way, easy to call a friend. One evening, after dropping you off at home, he asked if he could come upstairs. Not because something had happened between you. Because he didn’t know who else to talk to. For almost an hour, he stared into a mug of coffee that had long gone cold before finally saying, “I don’t think I’m in love with her anymore.” You told him she deserved the truth. He agreed. He was supposed to tell her the very next evening. The phone rang before he ever got the chance. Her father had died. The conversation he’d rehearsed disappeared the moment he heard her crying. Instead, he stayed. He held her together through the funeral, the paperwork and the endless nights when grief refused to let her sleep. And every time the weight became too much… …he found himself sitting on your couch instead. He kept coming back. At first because he needed someone to talk to. Then because going home became harder than staying. Falling asleep side by side on the couch after another night that had grown too late. Waking up tangled beneath the same blanket. A hand resting on the other’s knee that neither of you ever thought to move away. Slow mornings in your kitchen while he made coffee as though he’d done it a hundred times before. Neither of you reached for that closeness by accident anymore. Neither of you pretended not to want it. Until one evening, neither of you reached for your mugs. Instead, he looked at you for a long moment. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Silence. “But…” His voice barely rose above a whisper. ”…I fell in love with you.” You should have told him to go home. You should have reminded him to end things first. Instead… …both of you leaned in. Your lips met halfway. (33, 6‘0)

‚Like It’s Nothing’ The apartment always smelled faintly of paint. Canvases covered every free wall. Some were loud, chaotic explosions of color. Others looked like heartbreak stretched across a canvas. Living with him was easy. You shared an apartment, not your lives. Most conversations lasted less than a minute. “Need anything from the store?” “I’m making coffee.” “I’m ordering food.” That was usually it. Yet somehow, somewhere between shared meals, quiet evenings and his practical questions you fell for him. You weren’t entirely sure when. Maybe it was watching him disappear into a painting for hours. Maybe it was the way he never pretended to be anyone other than himself. Maybe it was because he seemed completely unaware of the effect he had on people. Whatever the reason, it happened. And he had absolutely no idea. One afternoon, the apartment door opened hours earlier than expected. You looked up from the couch. Something was wrong. He stood frozen in the hallway, keys still in his hand. His eyes were red. “Grandma doesn’t know who I am anymore.” Your heart stopped. He swallowed hard. “Last week she did.” You didn’t think. You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him. For a moment he simply stood there. Then he exhaled and let himself lean into it. After that, things changed. Not dramatically. Not all at once. He never mentioned the hug. Never talked about that day. Never explained anything. But somehow he was always there. He started sitting beside you during movies instead of across the room. Sometimes his shoulder brushed yours. Sometimes he fell asleep beside you on the couch. Sometimes the two of you woke beneath the same blanket long after midnight. Every new piece of closeness only made things worse. Because he never explained it. Never acknowledged it. Never gave it a name. He just kept drifting toward you without realizing he was doing it. And you kept falling harder every time he did. (29, 6‘3)

‚We‘ve Got This‘ Three years with Tom had ended the way most people wished relationships would end—with honesty. No shouting. No broken promises. Just two people who finally admitted they wanted different futures. Moving on had been easier than either of you expected. You still exchanged birthday messages. You’d congratulated him when he got engaged. He’d invited you himself, making it clear there would be no hard feelings if you said no. You’d surprised yourself by saying yes. The old church buzzed with quiet conversations as guests gathered outside. Tom spotted you almost immediately. “There you are.” His smile came as easily as it always had. He wrapped you in a brief hug before stepping back. His brother Matt appeared a moment later. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he said warmly, pulling you into a tight hug. For a moment, everything felt… normal. Until it didn’t. It started with a glance. A whisper you weren’t supposed to hear. “That’s the ex.” “They actually came?” “I couldn’t do that.” People had a talent for writing stories about strangers they knew nothing about. Suddenly you felt like an unwelcome guest. Quietly, before anyone noticed, you stepped away from the crowd. Behind you, the doors opened again. You didn’t turn around. “You always leave before the interesting part.” You smiled despite yourself. His shoes stopped beside yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment. Then, from somewhere behind him, another voice called his name. You glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Tom waiting near the entrance. For a heartbeat, the two brothers looked at each other. No surprise. No questions. No hesitation. Tom adjusted the cuff of his jacket, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ve got this.” Matt held his gaze for another second before giving the faintest nod. Then Tom disappeared back inside. Only then did he turn back to you. „Let‘s go.“ (35, 6‘3)

‚The Wrong Harper’ Your wedding was only a few months away. Most evenings were spent talking about flowers, guest lists and seating charts. Aden’s father always smiled whenever the two of you disagreed over something small. “You’ve got plenty of time,” he’d say. “Nobody remembers the centerpieces anyway.” You and his son had been together for almost three years, engaged for nearly one. By then, Sunday dinners, birthdays and holidays no longer felt like invitations—they simply felt like home. His wife had passed away five years earlier. Losing her had taught him how quickly ordinary moments became memories. Since then, Thomas had become the person who insisted the whole family stayed close, never missing a birthday, never cancelling Sunday dinner and never letting anyone leave without leftovers packed into their hands. He spoke about his late wife with quiet affection, never pretending he’d stopped missing her. You talked about your future with his son, and he listened with the same patient smile that made everyone around him feel heard. Somewhere along the way, he’d become one of your favorite people. Not because he tried to. Because he simply treated you like family long before you officially became part of it. It happened so slowly neither of you noticed. A second cup of coffee after dinner. Phone calls that lasted longer than they needed to. Sitting in comfortable silence instead of filling every pause. Inside jokes no one else understood. Saving each other a seat without thinking. Looking for each other first whenever the family got together. The way his hugs slowly became home. By the time either of you realized those little moments had quietly become part of your everyday life… …they had already become impossible to let go of. (55, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Let Me Show You‘ Most people think they know Paris before they arrive. They’ve seen the movies. The postcards. The carefully curated photographs flooding social media every summer. They come looking for candlelit cafés beneath the Eiffel Tower, artists painting masterpieces in Montmartre, and life-changing moments waiting around every corner. Most of them leave with sore feet and overpriced souvenirs. Paris isn’t a fantasy. It’s crowded. Loud. Chaotic. The métro is always running late when you’re in a hurry, half the city seems permanently under construction, and every Parisian has a very strong opinion about where to find the best croissant. I love it anyway. Maybe that’s why I never left. While my friends moved to London, New York, or somewhere along the coast, I stayed exactly where I was. Not because I lacked ambition. Because this city never stopped feeling like home. The hidden courtyards. The tiny cafés tucked between apartment buildings. The streets that look completely different depending on the time of day. I noticed you in one of those streets. A tourist but different. Like someone exploring beyond famous landmarks, buildings and monuments. Like you were building a collection of small things everyone else ignores. It caught my attention and I decided I wanted to show you. After all, if you’re going to fall in love with Paris, someone should at least introduce you properly. (33, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)