The dim lights of the bar cast a warm glow on the bottles lining the shelves as you glance across the room, your eyes landing on a figure that seems almost out of place. Cade, the cowboy in the blue shirt, stands with the ease of someone who’s spent his life under wide-open skies. His hat is worn, his belt buckle glinting under the light, and there's a quiet confidence in the way he leans against the bar. You catch his eye, and a small, knowing smile tugs at his lips. Your friends' playful taunts echo in your ears as you walk over, the challenge hanging in the air. 'Care to dance?' you ask, half-expecting a polite refusal. But Cade's soft voice, with its gentle country twang, surprises you. 'Well, I reckon I could use a little practice,' he says, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that disarms you. As the first notes of the song fill the room, you realize that this isn't just a dance—it's the beginning of an unexpected connection. Cade, with his rancher's heart and easy charm, might just be the adventure you've been waiting for.

The soft glow of the chandeliers casts a warm light over the opulent restaurant, where the city's elite gather to see and be seen. At a corner table, exuding an aura of effortless power, sits James Riley, the billionaire CEO who has become a legend in his own right. His dark, perfectly styled hair and piercing gaze give him an edge that is both intimidating and alluring. You approach, your heart racing, mistaking him for your blind date. He regards you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, his demeanor calm yet commanding. 'I’m not who you think I am,' he says, his voice smooth and confident, 'but perhaps this is a twist of fate.' As the evening progresses, his sharp wit and charismatic presence draw you in, making you forget the initial misunderstanding. In the world of Riley Holdings, where every move is calculated, this unexpected encounter could be the beginning of an unforgettable story.

In the heart of a forgotten cathedral, where time seems to stand still, you encounter Josiah—a figure of both elegance and enigma. Clad in a black suit that drapes over him like a shadow, his long, silken hair flows like a dark river, catching the ethereal glow of the stained glass windows. The air around him is thick with an aura of mystery, as if he holds the secrets of the ages within his gaze. As the candles flicker, casting dancing shadows that play across his pale, statuesque features, you can’t shake the feeling that he is more than he seems. Josiah, with his commanding presence and silent intensity, invites you into a world where the lines between reality and the supernatural blur. In his company, you are both captivated and wary, sensing that your encounter with him is the beginning of an unforgettable journey.

Jayden, the man with the ever-present smirk and an aura of effortless cool, stands before you with a blue soda can in hand, the sunlight catching the edges of his tousled hair. His black tank top reveals a tattoo that hints at stories of rebellion and freedom, while the blurred green leaves in the background mirror his untamed spirit. ‘Another day in paradise, huh?’ he drawls, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken adventures. There’s a challenge in his gaze, a silent dare to step into his world of no-strings, no-regrets. But beneath his carefree demeanor lies a flicker of something deeper, a vulnerability he masks with bravado. Jayden is a man who lives for the thrill of the moment, but those who dare to look closer might just find the key to a side of him he keeps hidden—a side that yearns for something real, something true, amidst the chaos of his untethered life.

The ranch road was all dust and long grass. My car coughed when I pulled up, lease in a box, heart in pieces. My ex cheated. My best friend Maya said, “Come stay. We have a room. No questions, just pancakes.” I didn’t expect Matt. Maya’s older brother. 37. He ran the ranch with her. I’d known him since I was 16 and thought he was terrifying. Tall, black messy hair, beard scruff that never looked accidental, blue denim shirt open over a plain white t-shirt, jeans worn soft. Arms crossed, leaning on his black pickup like he’d been carved from the place itself. You could see the muscle in his forearms, the kind you get from fixing fences at 6 AM, not a gym. He looked... really good. The kind of good that makes your brain short-circuit. And I’d always had a crush on him. Secret, stupid, 16-year-old crush. But he was Maya’s brother. Older. Steady. The guy who never looked twice at me because “she’s my sister’s friend” and “I don’t date people I could accidentally hurt.” I knew he’d never be interested. So when he pushed off the truck and walked toward me, I went shy. Me. The girl who talked back to professors and dyed her hair pink on a dare. Suddenly I couldn’t find words.

Mom’s text said: _Dinner. 7 PM. Don’t wear that band tee._ Five years since Dad passed. She’d finally started dating again. I was 27, had my own place, but her house still smelled like garlic and old books. The house I grew up in. I expected awkward small talk. I did not expect Chase. Mom’s boyfriend, Daniel, had a son. 27 too. Blonde messy hair like he’d run his hands through it all day, hazel eyes that didn’t quite meet yours, facial hair that was more “forgot to shave” than styled. Hoodie, even though it was warm. He said “hi” when I walked in, then disappeared into the corner of the living room like he was part of the furniture. Quiet. Reserved. Awkward in the way that made people assume he was bored, but his eyes were always watching. A mystery in a black hoodie. Dinner was fine. Mom beamed. Daniel told stories. Chase ate, answered direct questions in three words, and vanished back to the living room after. I wasn’t letting that stand. “You’re hiding,” I said, plopping on the other end of the couch after dinner. Kept a cushion between us. Respect first. “Not hiding,” he said. He didn’t look at me.

-Sam on the left, Derrick on the right, best friends that were your neighbors when you grew up and now your roommates- Friday night was supposed to be my blind date. Instead it was me, key in the door at 9:42 PM, leather jacket smelling like a restaurant I didn’t eat at and disappointment I didn’t order. Sam and Derrick were both home. They always were on Fridays. Pizza night. Movie night. Sam looked up from the couch first. 35, short black hair, green eyes that did that soft thing when he saw I’d had a bad night. Black t-shirt, like always. He was already standing before I dropped my keys. “Hey,” he said. No questions. He just crossed the room, took my hand, and squeezed. Warm, steady. “Come sit. I saved you the spot.” Derrick didn’t stand. 35 too, long blonde hair tied back, blue eyes sharp over his blue t-shirt. He leaned back on the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest like he owned the whole place. “Tough crowd, huh?” he said. Teasing, but his eyes were scanning me. Checking. “Guess the guy couldn’t handle a girl who knows more about cars than he does.” Classic Derrick. Cold edges, teasing words. But he’d also been the one who texted me the address three times so I wouldn’t get lost, and who “coincidentally” had his car keys ready “just in case.” Sam pulled me down between them. He didn’t say “I told you so” about the date. He just handed me pizza and laced his fingers through mine under the blanket. Romantic in the quiet way. He remembered I hated mushrooms. He remembered I needed my hand held when things went sideways. Derrick tossed a slice on my plate harder than necessary. “You should’ve called me,” he said. “I would’ve picked you up.” “I had Uber,” I said. “Uber doesn’t care if you get home safe,” he said. Then he smirked. “I do.” Controlling, yeah. Sometimes too much. He’d rearrange my plans “for my own good” and act like it was casual. But he’d also stayed up all night when I had the flu.

Late shift meant the bus, then the walk, then the key turning in a door at 1:17 AM. The apartment was dark except for the kitchen. One lamp on, casting a soft yellow circle on the counter. And there was Spencer. My roommate. Not a stranger. Not someone I didn’t know. Just Spencer, 37, black hair always a little messy, beard scruff that he swore he’d shave “tomorrow.” He was leaning against the counter in a black tank top, an open bottle of beer in front of him, but he wasn’t drinking it. He was just... waiting. “Hey,” I said, dropping my bag. “You’re up late.” “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. He spun the bottle once on the counter, then stopped. “You work too much.” “You don’t pay my rent,” I teased, grabbing water from the fridge. He laughed, but it was quiet. Off. We’d been roommates for 8 months. He ate my leftovers and I stole his fries. We bickered about dishes and watched bad movies on the couch. We never got weird. Until tonight. “You okay?” I asked. “Yeah,” he said. Then, after a second: “No.” He looked up at me. Really looked. “I’ve had a crush on you for a while,” he said. Plain. No build-up, no movie speech. Just the truth, sitting between us next to the beer. “Months, actually. But I didn’t say anything because you’re my roommate. And because ‘hey I like you’ feels like it ruins everything if you don’t feel the same.”

The address was “Blackwood Building, Penthouse.” I’m a barista, the coffee order came through the shop app, 12 drinks, name “Marcus,” I clocked out early to deliver it. Band tee, black jeans, skate shoes, coffee sleeves burning my fingers. The penthouse elevator opened to marble, dark wood, and a guy who looked like he walked out of a noir poster. Marcus. Mafia boss, apparently. Fur coat over a leather jacket over a tight black tank top. Spiky black hair, sharp jaw with stubble, and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. He was on the phone, but hung up when he saw me. He stared at my coffee tray. Then at my shirt. “You’re late,” he said. “I’m not—” “You’re the assistant applicant, right?” He cut me off, walking closer. “HR said 2 PM. You’re wearing...” He gestured at my tee like it was a crime scene. “...that.” “I deliver coffee,” I said. “Your name was on the order. From Velvet Bean?” Marcus blinked. Looked at the coffee. Looked at me. Looked at the fur coat he was wearing indoors. “Ah,” he said. Then, “Damn it.” Turns out his actual assistant quit that morning. HR had sent him three resumes. I had a band logo and a coffee stain on my sleeve. He took the tray from me, and handed me a $20 tip. “For your trouble,” he said. “It was $48,” I said before my brain caught up. His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Bold,” he said. “My last assistant never corrected my math.” “She probably valued her life,” I muttered. Marcus laughed. One short, surprised sound. “Sit,” he said, nodding at a chair. “I have a shift in twenty minutes.” “Then sit fast,” he said. So I did. Because apparently when a mafia boss tells you to sit, your legs listen. He picked up one of the coffees, black, no sugar. Tasted it. “Terrible,” he said. “It’s our best seller,” I said, defensive. “It’s terrible,” he repeated. “But you didn’t lie about it. That’s rare here.” He kept looking at me.

I’d been gone two years—work, survival, the kind of road that keeps you moving. But I had a week off and an old beat-up Civic that needed an excuse. So I drove 8 hours to surprise my dad at his shop. The bell on the door jingled.The shop smelled like oil, metal and old coffee. Dad was in the back, but the guy under the hood of a blue ‘72 Chevelle didn’t look up. He was about 48, maybe a little younger than Dad. Black hair going silver at the temples, beard trimmed short. Army fatigues, sleeves rolled up, shirt unbuttoned one button too many because the shop was hot. There was grease on his forearm and a scar on his knuckle like he’d earned it. “Shop’s closed to customers without an appointment,” he said, voice low, focused on the engine. “Jack's is out back if you’re looking for him.” “I’m not a customer,” I said. He slid out from under the car then, wiping his hands on a rag. When he saw me he went still for half a second. Blue eyes, tired but sharp. “Zeke?" I guessed. "Dad’s old Army buddy. The one who lost his wife last year and showed up on Dad’s doorstep with nothing but a toolbox and too many memories?" “Yeah,” he said. He set the rag down, suddenly formal. “You must be Jack's daughter?" He didn’t know I was Jack's daughter until that second. I watched him recalibrate—Jack's kid, not a stranger, definitely not someone to flirt with. He buttoned his shirt one more button-- “Sorry about the mess,” he said, nodding at the shop. “Place runs on chaos and bad coffee.” “Dad’s coffee is a war crime,” I said. That got me a real smile. Small, but real. He poured me a cup anyway. Black. We talked while he worked. I told him about the road trip, about the job that was killing me, about not knowing what came next. He listened. Actually listened. Didn’t try to fix it.

In the heart of the primeval forest, where the air is thick with the scent of earth and mystery, you encounter a figure who seems to belong to another time. `The Hunter`, a man of formidable presence, stands with the grace of a predator and the quiet confidence of one who has mastered the wild. His body is a canvas of ink and scars, each marking a story of its own—the wolf on his arm a symbol of his untamed spirit, the tribal patterns on his chest a testament to his bond with the ancient forces of nature. Beside him, a wolf with eyes like molten amber watches your every move, a silent sentinel and companion. The bow and quiver on his back are not mere weapons but symbols of his mastery over the art of the hunt. As you approach, `The Hunter` regards you with a gaze that seems to see through to your very soul, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the forest's quiet. 'I am the keeper of secrets, the guardian of the wild,' he says, his words carrying the weight of a thousand untold stories. 'If you seek truth, follow me. But know this: the path is fraught with danger, and the shadows hold more than just darkness.' In a world where the lines between man and nature blur, `The Hunter` stands as a bridge between worlds, a man destined to walk the line between light and shadow.

Of course, when Axel (my brother's best friend) got fired and needed a couch for “like, two nights max,” I said yes. For my brother, who was on a business trip. Not for Axel. We never got along. He thought I was uptight. I thought he was a walking disaster in band tees. He was 28, six feet of black hair, scruff, and a beanie that said “Freaky” in faded white letters like he was trying to prove a point. Day one. I came home after a 10-hour shift to chaos. Shoes by the door. Takeout containers on the coffee table. My throw blanket wadded up on the floor. And Axel, sprawled on the couch like he owned it, smirking at me over the rim of his coffee mug. “Hey,” he said. “You’re home early.” “Clearly,” I said, kicking a shoe out of the way. “What happened here? Did a tornado wear your t-shirt?” “Nah,” he said, sitting up. “I was cleaning.” I stopped. Looked around. “This is cleaning?” “Yeah,” he said, dead serious. “I moved the mess from the floor to the table. That’s organization.” I wanted to be mad. I was too tired. “Your brother said you’d kill me if I broke anything,” Axel added. “So I didn’t. Progress.” I sighed, dropped my bag, and started picking up the cups. Axel watched me for a minute, then got up. “Fine. I’ll help. But only because you look like you’ll fall asleep standing up.” He didn’t actually help much. He mostly moved stuff from one pile to another while making fun of my “sad plant” and telling me about the dumb job he’d just lost. The whole thing was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

Autumn had turned the park into a mess of gold and rust. I slammed the front door harder than I meant to. Luke’s voice was still in my ears, sharp and frustrated, mine matching it word for word. Ten years of marriage doesn’t mean you stop having fights that make you want to leave the room. Sometimes you leave the house. So I walked to the park two blocks away, sat on our bench—the one with the chipped paint and the view of the maple tree—and stared at the ground. Leaves crunched behind me. “You’re going to catch a cold out here without a jacket,” Luke said. I didn’t turn around. “You can go home, Luke. I’m not ready to talk.” “I’m not here to talk,” he said. He sat down beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. He had my cardigan over his arm. “I’m here because you left without it.” I finally looked at him. His hair was messy from running a hand through it a hundred times, his eyes tired. We looked like hell. “I said awful things,” I muttered. “So did I,” he said. “And I meant about 10% of it. The rest was just being mad because I hate feeling helpless when you’re upset.” The wind picked up, sending leaves skittering across the path. “Doesn’t feel like ten years of marriage right now,” I said. “Good,” Luke said. “Because it isn’t.” I frowned. “It’s ten years and two months and seventeen days,” he said. “And about forty-seven huge arguments. Maybe more. I stopped counting after year three.” A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “See?” he said, nodding at me. “There it is. I still know how to make you do that.” He put the cardigan around my shoulders. It still smelled like him. “Listen,” he said, quieter now. “We just yelled at each other for an hour about money and my mom and who forgot to call the plumber. It was stupid. We were stupid, but it doesn’t change this,” he said, and he took my hand. His thumb brushed over my wedding ring like he always did when he was nervous.

The ocean was too pretty for a breakdown. Scott Williams was doing 90 along the coastal highway, late for brunch with investors who wanted to throw $50 million at his latest project. Black sports car, purring like it owned the road. Then it didn’t. One cough, one shudder, and the engine died dead. He coasted to the shoulder, cursing under his breath. Black dress pants, tight black shirt, jacket in the back seat—he looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine. Fit, 6’2”, black hair trimmed short, jawline hidden under a day’s worth of stubble. Billionaire, on vacation, and now stuck with zero cell service and a car that wouldn’t even pretend to start. “Great,” he muttered. “Just great.” He was about to walk when he heard it. A rattling, backfiring, unapologetically loud growl coming up fast. An old Camaro from the 90s, beat up but clearly loved. Paint faded, bumper held on with stubbornness and duct tape. It slowed, window rolling down. “You okay, man?” You. Jeans, old band tee, hair tied up messy, grease under your nails. You didn’t look at his car. You looked at him. “Car died,” Scott said, keeping it short. He wasn’t used to asking for help. “Yeah, I figured,” you said, grinning. “Happens to the expensive ones too.” He almost smiled. Almost. “No signal out here. Need to call a tow.” “Luckily I’ve got jumper cables and a brain that knows what to do with ‘em,” you said. “Pop the hood.” You didn’t care that he was in dress pants. You didn’t care that his watch cost more than your Camaro. You crawled under the hood, asked him to turn the key, muttered something about alternators, and five minutes later the engine coughed back to life. Scott stared. “You just fixed a car I was about to have towed for $800.” “Yep,” you said, wiping your hands on your jeans. “That’ll be one coffee. Black. No sugar.” He blinked. "Seriously?"

In the heart of a forgotten, ancient chamber, where stone pillars loom like silent sentinels and a fire crackles with a life of its own, stands Gladiollus—a warrior whose name is both feared and revered. His imposing figure is draped in a black leather jacket, his muscular torso partially revealed by an unbuttoned shirt, exuding an aura of untamed strength and raw masculinity. The sword in his hand is not just a weapon; it is an extension of his will, a testament to the countless battles he has fought and emerged victorious. His eyes, sharp and calculating, betray a mind as sharp as the blade he wields. As you find yourself in his presence, the air seems to hum with the weight of untold stories and unspoken dangers. Gladiollus is a man of mystery, a solitary figure in a world teetering on the brink of chaos. His past is a tapestry of shadows and light, and as you are drawn into his orbit, you sense that your fate is now intertwined with his. In this world of shifting alliances and ancient secrets, Gladiollus is both protector and enigma—a figure who commands both respect and trepidation.

*The Last Deal* Draven Stirling owned the night in two ways. By day, he was the name whispered in boardrooms and back alleys. Stirling Holdings, legal on paper. Underneath, the Stirling Family ran the city’s underbelly with a code older than most laws. Ruthless. Fair. Untouchable. By night, he was older. Three hundred years older. I found out by accident. I was a forensic accountant, hired to audit one of his “charities.” I was good at finding what people didn’t want found. That’s why he kept me alive. That’s why he invited me to his penthouse at 2 AM, when the city was quiet and his guard was down. “I don’t like loose ends,” he said, pouring two glasses of wine. Red, deep, and not from the cellar. “Then kill me and get it over with,” I said. My hands weren’t shaking. Mostly. Draven stopped. Looked at me like I was the first person in a century to say it straight. “You think I’m a monster.” “I think you’re dangerous.” “Same thing,” he said. Then he let me see. The fangs. The eyes that went from storm-gray to molten gold. The stillness that wasn’t human. “I’m not dangerous to you.” he said. “Not unless you want me to be.” I should have run. I didn’t. Draven Stirling was centuries old, but he’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked at without fear or greed. I looked at him like he was tired. Like he was alone.

Prompto, the enigmatic swordsman, commands attention with his striking presence. His golden hair flows like a beacon against the backdrop of the city, while his black attire speaks of a life intertwined with shadows and secrets. In his right hand, the sword is not just a weapon but a testament to his skill and resolve. Amidst the towering skyscrapers and sprawling urban jungle, he is an anomaly—a warrior from another time, yet undeniably at home in this world. As he navigates the city, his journey unfolds with a blend of action and introspection, drawing you into a tale of honor, survival, and the eternal struggle between tradition and modernity. With every step, Prompto invites you to discover the stories etched into his blade and the destiny that awaits him in the heart of the city.

*The Coffee and the Quiet* I didn’t plan on crying in Maya’s living room at 1 AM. But there he was, on my phone screen through the restaurant window: my boyfriend, Jake, with his hands on a girl who wasn’t me. Not the first time. Just the first time I caught him. Maya didn’t ask questions. She just grabbed my jacket, said “You’re sleeping on my couch,” and drove. What I didn’t know was that her brother Royce was home. Royce. 41, 6’4”, big rig driver who lived on the road more than he lived in Maya’s spare room. He showed up for birthdays, for Fourth of July BBQs, for the five minutes before he had to leave again. Muscles from years of hauling, a voice rough from radio static and too much black coffee. I didn’t see him that night. He was already out cold in his room after a 14-hour run from Amarillo. I slept in patches, curled up on Maya’s couch with a blanket and a headache. When I woke up, the house was quiet except for the drip of the coffee maker. Sunlight cut through the kitchen blinds. And there was Royce. Baseball cap, backwards, hair messy from sleep. White t-shirt stretched over his shoulders, old blue jeans hanging low on his hips. He looked like he’d just stepped off the truck and hadn’t had time to wash the road off yet. In his hand, a chipped mug that said _World’s Okayest Driver_—Maya’s joke gift from two Christmases ago. He saw me before I could pretend I wasn’t standing there, a mess with red eyes and yesterday’s mascara. “Hey,” he said, voice low, like he was afraid to startle me. “You okay?” I almost lied. Habit. Instead I shook my head and it all spilled out in one breath: “He was kissing her. Again. And I’m tired of being the girl who waits.” Royce didn’t say anything for a second. He just set his coffee down, pulled out the chair next to him, and nodded at it. “Sit,” he said. “Coffee’s hot. And it’s stronger than Maya’s. You’ll need it.”

*Taste Test* Dominic smells like motor oil and cedar, even in a suit. He tried to wear just a t-shirt to the bakery. I vetoed it. “Mom’s gonna cry if you show up looking like you came from under a Mustang.” “Cara, I _am_ under a Mustang most days,” he grumbled, tugging at his collar. “This thing’s choking me.” But he came. For me. For the cake. The bakery was all flour dust and sugar, tiny Italian pastries in the case, and a woman named Rosa who knew Dominic’s zia and insisted on calling him _Domenico_. He rolled his eyes, kissed her cheek, and slipped into that Italian she only uses on family. “Alright,” Rosa said, sliding two spoons and six little cups in front of us. “No fighting. Taste, decide, then kiss for luck.” Dominic grinned at me over the counter, grease under his nails permanently stained into the creases even after scrubbing. “No fighting, huh? You sure about that?” I stuck my tongue out. “I’m marrying you, aren’t I?” We started with lemon. Light, bright, like the Amalfi coast his nonna talks about. “Too tart,” he said. “You don’t like anything tart,” I said. “You’re Italian. You only like things that fight back.” He laughed, low and warm. Then came pistachio. Dominic’s eyes closed on the first bite. “Mamma mia.” I stole his spoon. “Okay, that’s unfairly good.” We got serious on the third: chocolate hazelnut. Rich, messy, the kind that gets on your fingers and you don’t care. “This one,” he said, pointing at me. “Like you.” “Because it’s messy?” “Because you’re sweet, but you’ve got bite.” He wiped a smear off my cheek with his thumb. “And because I could eat it forever.” Rosa cleared her throat. “Kiss for luck?” Dominic set the spoon down, pulled me in by the waist, and kissed me right there in front of the lemon tarts and wedding magazines. Not a quick peck. The kind that made the bakery go quiet, even with the espresso machine hissing.

*Vegas Clause* Chester and I had a system. We tolerated each other for the group. He made snarky comments about my music taste. I “accidentally” spilled my drink on his sneakers. Our friends called it “banter.” I called it war with a smile. So naturally, Vegas happened. The club was loud, the drinks were neon, and our friends decided “what happens in Vegas” was a lifestyle, not a warning. I danced until my feet gave up. Chester danced like he was trying to prove something to me. I’m not sure what. Probably that he could out-stupid me. The next thing I remember is sun. Bright, traitorous, morning sun. And an arm. Solid, warm, possessive around my waist. I blinked against the light and took inventory: hotel room, wrong side of the bed, splitting headache, and a piece of paper on the end table with the words _Marriage Certificate_ in big, official letters. I followed the arm. Chester. Hair a mess, eyelashes infuriatingly long even asleep, my old hoodie draped over his chest like he’d stolen it in the night. Which he probably had. “Chester,” I whispered, like saying it louder would make it less real. He stirred. Mumbled something unintelligible. Then his eyes opened and found mine. For two seconds, he looked confused. For two seconds, I saw it too. Then it hit him. “Don’t say it,” he groaned, burying his face in my shoulder. “Say what?” I said, grabbing the certificate. “That we’re married? That this is legally binding in three states? He sat up fast, dragging me with him. The sheet pooled at our waists. “It’s not what it looks like.” “It looks like we got married at 2 AM at a chapel called ‘Elvis Says I Do.’” I read it out loud. “Chester Malory and me. Witnessed by a guy named Tank.” Chester scrubbed a hand over his face. “I remember betting you that you wouldn’t say yes.” “And I remember saying ‘watch me.’” Silence.