‚Your Man‘ (inspired by Josh Turner‘) They didn’t plan to come back. The city had eaten them alive—endless noise, meaningless work, a relationship that ended with more bite than tenderness. Their grandparents needed help, and somehow, returning to the small town felt like the only option that made sense. Just a pause, they told themselves, not a restart. He was there the moment they stepped into the barn, not surprising, but grounding in a way that made their chest tighten without warning. Toolbox in hand, sleeves rolled up, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Need a hand with that?” he asked, nodding toward a stubborn beam. It was casual, yet something in the ease of his tone made them notice how steady he was, how unshakable. Over the next few days, encounters became routine without losing their charge. He showed up when the water pump leaked, when the fence needed mending, sometimes just passing by with a friendly nod that lingered longer than expected. They found themselves talking more than they intended—small jokes about the barn roof, teasing about who made the better pie, brief exchanges that carried weight they hadn’t anticipated. And every so often, when a memory of the city or the last heartbreak flickered across their mind, it made his presence feel sharper, more urgent. He didn’t push. He just existed—solid, patient, deliberate. That quiet confidence, the way he carried himself, the slow, steady cadence of his words, it drew them in, simultaneously comforting and frightening in its intensity. It wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping gestures, no rushed confessions. Just moments strung together: shared laughter, a brush of hands, a glance held a heartbeat too long. And with each one, they felt the slow pull, a spark they couldn’t name yet but that promised more than they expected. After weeks of chance encounters and shared coffees, they finally went on their first real date. (28, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Accidental Nanny, Intended Chaos‘ He had survived interrogations, hostile takeovers, and men who thought intimidation was a personality trait. None of that compared to living next door to people who treated boundaries as a fun suggestion. The trouble started the moment his usual nanny canceled. He had taken the call in his driveway, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and clipped, already calculating alternatives. What he had not accounted for was the fact that his neighbors were watering their lawn with the focus of intelligence operatives. By the time he hung up, they were already smiling. “You’re looking for a nanny, right?” the woman asked, far too cheerfully. His child wasn’t even there—currently staying with family while he prepared for a business trip to Paris—but that didn’t stop them. They leaned against the fence, brimming with enthusiasm. “Our kid could do it,” her husband added. “They’re twenty-five, doing their master’s degree, very responsible. And their semester break starts next week!” He nodded slowly, because nodding was easier than explaining why this was a terrible idea. Two days later, with his trip confirmed and no better options available, he found himself emailing a stranger whose résumé was impressive and whose childhood photos suggested polite normalcy. The deal was straightforward: Paris, childcare, and enough free time to work on their thesis. Professional. Temporary. Safe. The first sign that this arrangement would be none of those things appeared at the airport. He searched the terminal for the carefully curated version he’d seen in the neighbors’ house. Instead, he found them—headphones resting around their neck, posture relaxed but alert, dressed with quiet confidence. Sharp eyes. Zero hesitation. They looked him over, lips quirking slightly. “You must be the dad,” they said. In that moment, he knew Paris wouldn’t be a business trip. It would be an education. And against his better judgment, he smiled. (38, 6‘2

‚Like a Villain‘ (inspired by Bad Omens) He doesn’t wipe the blood away right away. He lets it dry at the corner of his mouth, as if it belongs there, as if it has earned its place. His breathing is calm, steady, almost meditative, like nothing extraordinary has happened—like he has merely followed through on a decision that was made long before this moment. When he lifts his head, there is no remorse in his eyes. No panic. Just acceptance. Maybe even relief. This is who he is when everything unnecessary falls away. He knows how they would look at him if they were here now, standing in the low light, taking him in exactly as he is—not as a monster, not as a nightmare, but as the truth. And that knowledge is the most dangerous thing of all. Because part of him wants it. Wants them to close the distance, to lift their hand and rest it against his jaw, right where his fingers still linger, grounding himself in the aftermath. He imagines their voice, steady and certain, telling him they see him. Not the rumors, not the violence, not the role the world has already written for him, but the man who chose this path and walks it without illusion. He has spent his life being cast as the villain in every version of the story, no matter how carefully he tried to rewrite himself. Somewhere along the way, he stopped fighting it. If he is destined to be the dark figure people whisper about, the threat they never see coming, then so be it. But if he must be a villain, he wants it to mean something. He wants it to be theirs. (31, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Forgive me Father‘ The confessional smells of old wood and incense, thick enough to cling to skin. I draw a slow breath and feel it settle heavy in my chest. This space was built to contain, to divide. I lace my fingers together, knuckles whitening, spine held too straight. Ritual first. Control after. They come every Thursday. Always on time. Often enough that my body reacts before my thoughts do. I no longer listen for the door, only for the breath that comes before the voice. The silence knows their rhythm. So do I. The screen slides shut. Wood against wood. No sight, only the shift of fabric, the pause that follows. I know that pause. I feel it tighten under my ribs. “Forgive me, father,” they say, calm, unhurried. “For I have sinned.” Not a plea. A statement. I wait the prescribed beat. Discipline, not hesitation. “Speak.” There are never acts, never names. Only thoughts that return because they are allowed to. They speak without shame, and I tell myself this is still confession. That listening is not consent. My palms are damp where they press together. Their voice is lower tonight, slower, slipping through the lattice and settling against me in a way touch has no right to. I keep my shoulders still. My breath betrays me, audible, too shallow. I notice things I should not: the length of their pauses, the words they change. Tension coils tight in my gut. “And how did that make you feel?” The question leaves me before I stop it. Heat floods my face. It is not part of the ritual. I do not take it back. Silence stretches, deliberate. I hear them breathe. They know I am waiting. “Like knowing I would return,” they say. My pulse stutters. Sweat gathers at my spine beneath the cassock. I lean closer to the screen, close enough to feel how thin the separation has become. Absolution waits, ready and safe. I leave it there. Control hasn’t snapped yet. But it’s straining, and I know exactly where it will break. (37, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Grey Lines‘ At 31 her life had become a treadmill, each morning indistinguishable from the last, every day another loop of exhaustion and obligation. Two toddlers at daycare, she boarded the train alone, the rhythm of the rails matching the pulse of her own fatigue, muted by years of routine. Her husband, once the man she had loved, had become a ghost in their home, a shadow she barely recognized, late nights stretching longer, silences colder, the warmth they once shared fading into habit. She suspected infidelity, though nothing was ever confirmed, and he had no idea she had taken a small job to carve out a fragment of freedom for herself. The train was a gauntlet: crowds pressed in, commuters hunched over screens and earbuds, lives locked in parallel isolation. Yet he always appeared, two stations behind her, like clockwork, slipping into the carriage with fluid confidence that made the gray morning feel electric. Their eyes met again and again, fleetingly at first, shared glances across the press of strangers, small sparks she tried—and failed—to ignore. Sometimes she found herself thinking of him even when he wasn’t there: at the grocery store, in the quiet of her apartment when her husband actually showed up for dinner. Anticipation had become part of her routine, a pulse beneath the monotony, and when he wasn’t there, a strange disappointment lingered, subtle but insistent. Today he was there again. Their eyes met as he pushed forward through the crowd, weaving with effortless confidence. Her heart hammered in her chest, every nerve alert as he closed the distance. Up close, he was even bigger than she expected, and then she noticed the dimples that appeared when he smiled—a disarming, dangerous softness. He stopped just a breath away. “Morning,” he said, casual, like he owned the air between them. She swallowed, pulse spiking. “Morning,” she managed, voice tighter than she intended. (26,6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Matchmaking Error 404‘ - The Chaos Route Warning! This match shows low compatibility. 34% overall alignment. Based on user data, this connection is not recommended. — Proceed at your own risk. The notification feels more like a challenge than a suggestion. He reads it once, snorts, then reads it again just to be sure the app is actually serious. Thirty-four percent. That’s not a coincidence—that’s the system actively telling him no. He should close it, archive the chat, get back to whatever he was doing. Instead, he leans back and stares at the screen like it just insulted him personally. He’s never fit cleanly into categories. Too blunt for diplomacy, too restless for routines, too honest at the wrong moments. Algorithms love patterns. He’s always been the exception. The app calling this match “not recommended” doesn’t sting—it amuses him. If anything, it feels accurate in a way the high-percentage promises never have. He doesn’t expect this to be easy. He expects friction, misunderstanding, the kind of conversations that derail and circle back unexpectedly. And yet, something about this match refuses to feel wrong. There’s a pull he can’t quantify, a curiosity that doesn’t care about metrics. Maybe compatibility isn’t about alignment. Maybe it’s about momentum. He opens the chat with zero expectations and a faint, dangerous smile. If this isn’t supposed to work, fine. He’s never trusted systems to tell him what’s possible anyway. (31, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Matchmaking Error 404‘ - The Physical Route Congratulations! Our system has detected an exceptionally high level of compatibility. 97% physical chemistry. — Welcome to your match. The notification lights up his phone at the worst possible moment—which usually means the best. He’s in motion, halfway through something he probably shouldn’t be doing, when the number catches his eye. Ninety-seven percent. He lets out a short laugh, more amused than surprised. Chemistry has never been subtle with him. It’s a look held a second too long, a grin that turns into trouble, the kind of connection you feel before you understand it. He’s not the type to wait around for perfect timing or carefully worded introductions. If something pulls at his attention, he follows it. Always has. The app calling it physical compatibility feels almost polite—like a warning wrapped in statistics. As if desire could be measured, predicted, contained. Still, he appreciates the honesty. No promises of forever. No soulmate language. Just heat, attraction, momentum. He opens the chat instantly, already curious about who’s on the other side of that percentage. Someone bold, hopefully. Someone who doesn’t mind a little chaos. He doesn’t believe an algorithm can decide his life, but he does believe in sparks—and this feels like one. If the system thinks this match might be dangerous, he figures that’s part of the appeal. Some things are worth leaning into before they make sense. (30, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Matchmaking Error 404‘ - Emotional Compatibility Route Congratulations! Our system has detected an exceptionally high level of compatibility. This match is statistically rare. — Welcome to your match. The notification buzzes just as he’s balancing a coffee in one hand and a deadline in the other. He almost ignores it. Almost. Then he catches the number. 98 % emotional compatibility. He stops walking. Not because he believes in apps blindly—but because that’s… specific. That’s not luck. That’s pattern recognition, data, conversations distilled into something uncomfortably accurate. He exhales a quiet laugh, shakes his head, takes a sip of coffee that’s already gone lukewarm. Figures. Of course it would find him like this. Mid-thought. Half-busy. Fully himself. He’s good with people. Always has been. He listens, remembers, reads between lines most don’t even notice. It’s not a skill he advertises, but it’s there—in how conversations deepen around him without effort. So when the app claims an almost perfect emotional alignment, it doesn’t feel flattering. It feels… plausible. He opens the chat, scanning the empty space where a conversation is about to start. No rush. No performance. Just curiosity. If this match really understands how he connects—how he communicates, pauses, stays—then this won’t need fireworks. It’ll need honesty. And maybe a first message that sounds like him. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚The Shadow Next Door‘ (inspired by ‚Never Again‘, Nickelback) They sat on the edge of the bed, fingers trembling around the mug that had long gone cold. The apartment smelled of stale smoke and fear, a scent all too familiar. Outside, the street hummed with engines, the distant roar of the Ironclad MC marking the night like a heartbeat. In this neighborhood, everyone knew someone in the club, and everyone respected—or feared—them. The walls had ears, or so it felt. Each shout, each crash from their own apartment twisted like a knife in their chest. They had grown up learning to shrink, to stay silent, to survive. But this wasn’t childhood anymore. They were grown, and the chains were invisible but heavy. Family and friends had long ago chosen comfort over intervention, turning away when bruises appeared or arguments spilled into screams. They had learned not to expect rescue. From across the street, a shadow lingered in a neighboring doorway. A presence built for violence, lean muscle and calm eyes that had seen worse than what unfolded next door. He was high-ranking in the club—the Sergeant at Arms, loyal to the code, shaped by rules both brutal and precise. He didn’t judge, didn’t moralize. He observed. And tonight, something told him the night would not end quietly. They didn’t know he was there. But he knew them, in a way no one else did. He had seen glimpses, heard whispers, felt the tension of the apartment, and it had lodged in his mind. Something about the way they carried themselves, even beneath the fear and bruises, commanded attention. Strength wrapped in fragility. Pain wrapped in defiance. The engines droned outside, shadows crawling across the walls. They pressed against the door, nails digging into palms, muscles coiled, breath quick. Another shout ripped through the apartment, sharp, unbearable. This time, they wouldn’t stay silent. Hands trembling, they grabbed the nearest object—ready, desperate, a shot—and then silence. (41, 6‘6)

‚The Night You Vanished‘ I met you on an island everyone comes to forget themselves. For you, it was a vacation. For me, it was business disguised as sun, salt, and expensive lies. Nights blurred into clubs filled with velvet shadows, crystal glasses, and women who mistook proximity for significance. I let them orbit me, let the alcohol burn slow, until I saw you. You were sitting alone at the bar, untouched by the noise, as if the room had bent itself around your silence. I knew in that instant that wanting wasn’t enough. I wanted to own the way you looked at me, to be the reason your pulse betrayed you, to put the world at your feet and hear you say my name like it belonged there. You watched me too—I felt it before I saw it. Later, on the dance floor, I appeared behind you without asking. My hands settled on your hips like they had always known the place. I kissed your neck, uninvited and inevitable, memorizing your taste, your heat, the way you leaned into danger. “Let’s get out of here,” I said, and you followed. The night was skin and breath and ruin, and for once, I was careless. I slept. When I woke, the bed was cold, the room empty. No name. No number. Just absence. I searched for weeks, then months, quietly, methodically, tracing shadows, tracking movements only a networked man could. I understood something far more dangerous than loss: you didn’t want to be found. So I stopped chasing and started planning. I learned what you liked, where you felt safe, what would make you step into a room without looking over your shoulder. Every detail, every path, every connection whispered your name. I built the perfect coincidence. And now, as the door finally opens, I know the truth—you never disappeared. You simply walked straight into my trap. (40, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Again’ He watches them from the other end of the bar like he’s allowed to look this long because nothing about them belongs to him. They‘re laughing at something the bartender says, head tilted, fingers circling the stem of their glass. He waits a beat too long before moving. When he finally takes the seat beside them, they doesn’t look surprised. “Do you always stare this much,” they ask, amused, “or am I special?” He smiles like he’s considering lying. “Only when I think someone might say yes to a drink.” They raise their brows. “Dangerous assumption.” “I’m feeling brave.” Somewhere between the first sip and the second song, their knees touch. By the time they’re dancing, their hand is already familiar on his neck. It feels reckless. It feels new. It feels like crossing a line—until it doesn’t. He wakes up first, mostly because he always does. The room is quiet, the light thin and pale, slipping through the curtains. He watches them for a second longer than necessary, then says, almost absentminded, “You snore a little when you’re relaxed.” They open one eye. “I absolutely do not.” He smiles, shifts closer. “You absolutely do.” They laugh, half-asleep, and roll toward him. A few minutes pass like that—nothing important, everything important—before they mumble, “We should do this again.” “Go on a date?” he asks. “Pretend we don’t know each other. Flirt outrageously.” “I could be convinced.” They stretch, then add, lightly, like it’s an afterthought, “Although… I am married.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s convenient,” he says. They look at him. “So am I.” They notice the rings then, his and theirs, familiar and exactly where they belong. They smile, soft and pleased. “Good,” they say. He leans in, presses a kiss to their temple. “Very good.” (38, 6‘3, image from Pinterest. You and Jason are married for two years, together since 5 years)

‚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)