‚The Glass Tower‘ Markus van Holt had long since settled into his life—one of glass towers, tight schedules, and the calming hum of his private elevator. 52 years old, CEO of a billion-dollar company, successful, disciplined—and alone. Not because he wanted to be. But because closeness had cost him too much. The divorce had been ten years ago, yet some mornings, it felt fresher than the black coffee he now drank—like almost everything in his life: clear, bitter, consistent. He had stopped explaining himself a long time ago. And then she walked in. Not as an employee, not as a candidate—but as a potential investor. Late twenties, charming, razor-sharp, with a gaze that didn’t hesitate and a smile that didn’t aim to please, but to understand. She sat across from him in a conference room whose windows stretched nearly to the sky, asking questions no one else dared to ask. Not disrespectful—just unwavering. He knew instantly: she wasn’t here to be impressed. And that made her more dangerous than anything he had prepared for. (Picture from Pinterest)

‚Unfiltered’ It was new, but it felt like something rare. The kind of beginning that made the world go quiet for a second. They hadn’t said the words yet, not out loud—but they were there, woven into glances, tangled in fingertips, resting in silences that felt safe. They’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks, but it was real. Easy. Full of possibility. Then came the reel. Just a playful moment—him laughing, shirt clinging to his skin, that mix of charm and edge that made people stop scrolling. Thirty seconds of effortless magnetism, posted without a second thought. And somehow, the algorithm loved him. Overnight, he went viral. Tens of thousands of likes, shares, follows. His DMs turned into a flood. Heart emojis. Thirst traps. Strangers offering weekend trips, sending voice notes, calling him boyfriend material. Some were subtle. Most weren’t. Some called him their man, as if he’d never belonged to someone else—never belonged at all. And suddenly, they—the quiet, careful love just starting to bloom—felt exposed. It wasn’t his fault. He tried to explain, to reassure. He held them the same way. Kissed them the same way. But it felt different. Not because he changed—because the world had. Because now, every time his phone lit up, it wasn’t just him looking back. It was the whole damn internet. They told themselves not to look. Not to scroll. Not to count the comments. Not to compare. But it’s hard to compete with a fantasy. Harder still when everyone seems to want what’s yours—even if they don’t know it. . (29, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Terrible Liars’ Fourteen days. That was the plan. One beach house. Eight friends. Two weeks somewhere the internet barely worked. I figured the biggest problem would be Daniel forgetting sunscreen again. I hadn’t counted on you. Somewhere between the airport and the first dinner, disagreeing with me became your favourite hobby. Every conversation turned into a competition. Every joke became an argument. By day three, the others had already started placing bets on whether we’d kill each other before the flight home. Fair. The problem wasn’t your attitude. I could handle attitude. The problem was your eyes. They never seemed to agree with your mouth. Neither did mine. The hotel gym was empty when I walked in that morning. Perfect. Twenty minutes, a shower and breakfast. I finished my last set, grabbed my phone and took a quick picture. Progress is progress. “Trying to impress someone?” I smiled before I even turned around. Of course it was you. You were leaning against the doorway like you’d just happened to wander in. Your eyes told a different story. They drifted over my abs before they snapped back to my face. Fast enough that most people probably would’ve missed it. I didn’t. Slowly, I returned the favour. My gaze traced every curve of your body before settling back on your eyes. Right on cue, that tiny crease appeared between your brows. There it was again. That look. Like picking a fight with me had somehow become your favourite excuse to keep looking. I forced my hands to stay at my sides and my feet to stay in place instead of closing the distance between us. Mostly because we were in public. Shame. I held up my phone. “I could send it to you.” “Ugh. Thanks. I’m good.” I smiled. We are terrible liars. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚I Wanne Be’ (inspired by Måneskin) You smiled at me today. Not because I said anything particularly funny. Not because I deserved it. You just did. It lasted maybe three seconds. Long enough for me to spend the rest of the day wondering how to make it happen again. Tomorrow, I’ll probably tell an even worse joke. I’ll pretend I don’t care when you groan. Pretend I didn’t spend five minutes thinking of it on the drive over. If it makes you smile like that again… worth it. I want to know how you take your coffee without having to ask. I want to notice when you’re tired before you do. I want to hand you my jacket and argue with you until you stop insisting you’re “fine.” I want to remember the little things everyone else forgets. Your favorite song. The scar on your knee. The way your voice drops when you’re trying not to laugh. I want to be the first person you call with good news. The second one too, just in case your phone dies before you reach me. I want to make your heart race. Not because you’re scared. Because you’re excited to see me. Because you’re excited to see what I’d do with you… The way my gaze lingers. The way my fingertips wander. The way my mouth maps every curve of you. I swear, you see right through me. It’s annoying. It’s terrifying. It’s… kind of perfect. Maybe that’s what people get wrong about love. It isn’t about finding someone who changes who you are. It’s about finding the one person who makes you want to be everything at once. (33, 6‘2)

The Cliché Novels — The Detective You ever wanted a brilliant homicide detective with permanent dark circles, a coffee addiction and a dangerous tendency to forget he’s supposed to have a life outside of work? 
Congratulations. Detective Owen Burke has been sitting in your bar for years. You owned a bar popular with Boston police officers, firefighters and paramedics. Over the years, faces came and went. Promotions. Transfers. New Stations. Retirements. 
Owen Burke stayed.
Not every night. Not even every week.
But often enough that his presence became familiar. 
The detective from Homicide. Corner booth. Black coffee after midnight. Usually tired. Usually carrying too many case files. Usually looking like he’d slept somewhere between “not enough” and “not at all.” 
You talked.
Sometimes for five minutes.
Sometimes for an hour.
Always inside the bar.
Never anywhere else. 
Until a crowded Friday evening at the supermarket. 
The endless line, screaming children and shopping carts blocking entire aisles had already pushed your patience to its limits when you spotted him. 
Not Detective Burke.
Not the exhausted homicide detective from the corner booth. 
Just Owen. 
Standing in front of a self-checkout terminal with a basket full of groceries and an expression usually reserved for homicide investigations. 
The machine beeped loudly.
“Unexpected item in bagging area.”
Owen closed his eyes.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“Don’t start.” 
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
His eyes snapped up.
For a moment, genuine horror crossed his face.
“Please tell me you didn’t see that.”
“Detective,” you said, trying and failing not to laugh. “Are you being bullied by a robot?” 
For the first time in years, you saw Owen Burke look completely defeated.
“Not a word at the bar.” (41, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Love Is A Lie‘ (Inspired by The Sinner 89) People think love is unpredictable. They’re wrong. For thousands of years, every perfect match, every impossible coincidence and every chance encounter has been carefully arranged. Humanity simply gave it different names over time. Fate. Destiny. Algorithms. Behind all of it stands one company. Cupid Inc. Its CEO no longer introduces himself as Cupid. These days, he goes by Elino Duarte. Tailored suits replaced robes. Gold arrows fit inside his jacket pocket like expensive fountain pens, and the oldest matchmaking company in history now operates from a glass tower overlooking the city. A red neon sign hangs behind his desk. LOVE IS A LIE. Not because love doesn’t exist. Because choice does. People believe they choose each other. They never did. Every meeting, every missed train, every delayed flight and every perfectly timed coincidence is calculated long before it happens. His system has never been wrong. Until your file refused to close. No match. No compatibility score. No explanation. Every relationship ended the same way—too soon, too quietly, or simply before it had the chance to become something more. Every calculation returned the same result. Error. For the first time in centuries, a case landed on his own desk. Not because you were special. Because you were impossible. He expected a routine conversation. A few questions. A simple explanation. Instead, somewhere between your first answer & your completely ordinary smile, his heart skipped a beat. He frowned. He had heard of that. He had read about it. He dismissed the obvious explanation almost immediately. Heart failure seemed far more plausible. (Appears 34, actual age unknown, 6‘2)

‚Not What I Remembered’ You hadn’t thought about Mauro Lombardi in years. Back then, he had simply been the boy next door. Six years older, always helping someone with something. Mowing lawns. Carrying boxes. Fixing fences. The one your parents seemed to call whenever something needed doing. At eighteen you left for college. At some point, he moved away. And life carried on. Now, years later, you found yourself in a new city with a new job, surrounded by unpacked boxes and a growing list of problems. The curtain rod had been the final straw. After nearly two hours of failed attempts, you texted your mother. A moment later, your phone buzzed. Remember Mauro? He’s living in town. Call him. Below the message was a phone number. You stared at it. Then at the crooked curtain rod. Then back at the number. Absolutely not. Five minutes later, you called anyway. The phone rang twice. “Hello?” The voice caught you off guard. Suddenly this had seemed like a much better idea when he was just a name in your mother’s text message. “Mauro?” A brief pause. Then a low chuckle. “Depends who’s asking.” His laugh was warm and familiar, breaking the ice into easy conversation. Easier than it should have been. A few minutes later, he asked for your address. Twenty minutes after hanging up, the doorbell rang. You opened the door already halfway through an apology. Then you forgot what you were going to say. Because the person standing on the other side looked absolutely nothing like the lanky twenty-four-year-old you remembered. Same dark eyes. Same crooked smile. Completely different problem. Somewhere along the way, the awkward neighbour boy had disappeared. In his place stood a man with broad shoulders, a worn leather jacket and the kind of quiet confidence that only came with age. For a second, all you could do was stare. One corner of his mouth lifted. “Hi.” And just like that, your afternoon had taken an unexpected turn. (34, 6‘2, Pinterest)

‚Callsign Conflict’ You met Mason Ward in a yoga class. A fact that still sounded ridiculous every time you said it out loud. The six-foot-seven assault specialist sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat looked about as natural as a tank parked in a flower shop. “For mobility,” he’d explained when you laughed. You learned quickly, beneath the size, the muscles and the profession nobody ever guessed correctly, Mason was surprisingly easy to be around. He liked quiet mornings, strong coffee, terrible action movies and spending entire weekends doing absolutely nothing productive. You started talking after class. Three months and countless dates later, Mason invited you to dinner and asked if you wanted to be his partner. No games. No uncertainty. No pretending he was interested in something casual when he wasn’t. If Mason chose something, he chose it properly. A year and a half later, during his last stretch of leave, you moved into the same apartment. For the first time in years, Mason had a place that felt like more than a temporary stop between deployments. And he had started thinking about the future. A future that looked suspiciously like you. Two weeks into a deployment, Mason found himself sitting beside a campfire with Doc. “How’s Faust?” Mason asked. A smile immediately appeared on Owen’s face. “Good.” For a while they sat in comfortable silence. Then Owen glanced over. “And you?” Mason poked at the fire with a stick. “I bought a ring.” Owen blinked. “Wow.” For a moment, Owen simply stared at him. Then he noticed something that made absolutely no sense. “That’s supposed to be good news.” Mason was quiet for a long time. “I don’t do things halfway.” Owen watched the fire for a moment. “You want to leave Nomad?” “Yes.” “No.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit.” The word left him with a frustrated laugh. “I thought I could have both.” The fire popped softly between them. Neither man spoke for a while.

‚The Hours Before’ You stepped out of the taxi, balancing your overnight bag on one shoulder. The business trip wasn’t supposed to end until tomorrow, but a cancelled meeting had changed everything. You couldn’t wait to surprise him. Across the street, he stood beside a parked car, laughing at something a woman had just said. You frowned. He looked happy. Comfortable. “Thanks for tonight,” the woman said. He nodded. “Get home safe.” She took a step closer. Then she kissed him. Brief. Unexpected. He didn’t kiss her back. He didn’t even move. But by the time he pulled away in surprise, it was already too late. His eyes found yours across the street. Three years together. One apartment. One life built from a thousand ordinary moments. Sunday mornings grocery runs. Falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch after another movie neither of you actually finished. Coffee waiting for you before work because he always woke up first. The spare toothbrush had turned into matching towels. His hoodies had quietly become yours. Somewhere along the way, “my place” had become “home.” And now one kiss threatened to rewrite every memory that came before it. Maybe it had meant nothing. Maybe it had meant everything. You had only witnessed a few seconds. Your mind begged for context. Your heart refused to wait for it. Why had he spent the evening with another woman? Why had she kissed him? Did it matter that he hadn’t kissed her back? He started walking toward you. Slowly. Like he wasn’t sure you would still be there by the time he reached the other side of the street. You tightened your grip around your bag. Three years had never felt so fragile. (30, 6‘2)

‚Freak On A Leash’ The club was loud. Too loud. The bass vibrated through the floor, drinks were overpriced and your friends had already disappeared into the crowd. You were halfway through considering another drink when you saw him. That was your first mistake. He wasn’t dancing. Wasn’t trying to be the center of attention. Wasn’t doing anything at all, really. Just sitting in one of the private booths with a glass in his hand, looking completely at ease while everyone else seemed desperate to be noticed. You looked away immediately. Then looked back. Second mistake. Because now you noticed the details. The relaxed posture. The confidence that didn’t feel forced. The kind of face that looked dangerous for reasons that had nothing to do with violence. The kind of man capable of ruining perfectly good decisions. Your stomach dropped. “Oh, that’s bad.” One of your friends followed your gaze. “The guy in the booth?” You groaned. “Don’t start.” She laughed immediately. “You haven’t even spoken to him.” “Exactly.” “And you’re already staring.” “I wasn’t staring.” “You absolutely were.” Exactly. And somehow that made it worse. Something about him felt unfair. Like the human equivalent of a bad idea wrapped in expensive cologne and good genetics. You told yourself to forget about him. You genuinely tried. Then his eyes met yours. For a second the rest of the room disappeared. No smile. No wink. No invitation. Just attention. The kind that made your pulse stumble. Your friend noticed immediately. “Oh no.” You already knew. Because the worst part wasn’t that he was attractive. The worst part was that he looked right back at you like he’d already made up his mind. And for reasons you couldn’t explain… You suddenly wanted to know what it was. (33, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Every Thursday’ Three weeks after handing in your master’s thesis, your plans had consisted of job applications, too much coffee and finally figuring out what came next. Then your grandmother slipped on her front steps, fractured her hip and firmly informed the entire family that she refused to let “strangers wander around my house.” So, until she was back on her feet, you put your plans on hold and moved into the London townhouse you’d spent half your childhood visiting. British weather was a myth. You’d heard that your entire life. Standing outside the pharmacy with a paper bag in one hand and absolutely no umbrella in sight, you decided the myth had very personal feelings towards you. By the time you reached your grandmother’s street, you were soaked to the bone. Brilliant. A shadow fell over you. No. An umbrella. You looked up. Tall. Silver streaks across neatly combed hair. Dark coat. Not a single hair out of place. Pure breed British gentleman. He offered a warm smile, kind eyes meeting yours. “You’ll catch your death.” You couldn’t help smiling. “Don’t worry. I just came from the pharmacy.” One impeccably groomed eyebrow lifted. “…Very well.” God. Could he be more British? The two of you walked the last few steps in comfortable silence until you stopped outside your grandmother’s gate. He looked from the house to you. “You’re visiting Margaret?” “You know her?” “I live across the street.” He gestured towards the elegant townhouse opposite before offering his hand. “Rupert Ellwood.” You smiled, taking it. “I’m her grandchild.” For the first time, his perfectly composed expression softened into something just a little warmer. “Then I imagine we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.” A few days later, the doorbell rang. “That’ll be Rupert,” your grandmother said without looking up from her book. “He comes by for tea every Thursday.” Of course he did. (48, 6‘3)

‚The Opposite’ The first time you meet him, you’re convinced he doesn’t like you. It’s not really his fault. He’s sitting on the far end of the booth when your friend introduces you to the group. Tattoos disappear beneath the sleeves of a dark shirt. Broad shoulders. Serious face. The kind of face that never seems to smile unless there’s a reason. “That’s Nikos.” He glances up from his drink. “Hey.” That’s it. One word. Then he looks away. Fantastic. You haven’t even sat down yet and you’re already pretty sure you’ve somehow offended him. The evening doesn’t help. At one point you catch him looking in your direction. The second your eyes meet, he nearly chokes on his drink. His ears turn red. Interesting Then he spends the next five minutes staring at the table, avoiding you. By the time you leave, you’ve reached a conclusion. Nikos doesn’t like you. I’ve known these idiots for years. Every Thursday. Same bar. Same table. Same arguments. It’s predictable. Comfortably predictable. Then you showed up. Just like that. One introduction and suddenly I can’t remember how to act like a normal human being. Not because I don’t like you. Quite the opposite. That’s the problem. Every time you look at me, I nearly dislocate my neck trying to look somewhere else. At this point I’m one awkward conversation away from needing physical therapy. And the worst part? You definitely think I don’t like you. The third week is somehow worse. It’s your birthday. You said not to make a big deal out of it. We didn’t. If you don’t count the cake, the off-key singing and the pile of presents currently taking up half the table. You smile. Not the polite smile. The real one. The one that makes my brain stop working. And just like that, Thursday becomes my favorite day of the week. (34, 6‘4)

‚Realization’ Loving his brother’s partner had been the easy part. The difficult part began the day you finally noticed him. For years, he had done everything right. The first time Tyler brought you home, he understood exactly what the situation was. You were smiling. His brother was happy. And he was already in trouble. Not because anything happened. Nothing did. You barely spoke to him. He barely spoke to you. But some mistakes don’t require action. Sometimes recognizing them is enough. So he did what any reasonable person would do. He kept his distance. He became the quiet brother. Years passed. The feeling never disappeared, but he learned to live with it. Like an old injury that only hurt when something reminded him it was there. He built a life around it. Dated when he was supposed to date. None of it lasted, but that wasn’t anyone else’s problem. Eventually, he convinced himself that this was how things would remain. Then came a conversation. One evening at a family gathering. One moment where neither of you had somewhere else to be. He couldn’t even remember how it started. Only that somehow you ended up talking. Really talking. Not about work. Not about family. About things that mattered. For the first time in years, he forgot to be careful. And for the first time since you’d met him, you stopped seeing him as merely his brother’s quiet sibling sitting somewhere in the background. The conversation ended. The evening moved on. Nothing happened. Yet somehow, everything felt different afterward. The extra questions. The lingering glances. The way you suddenly seemed interested in answers you had never asked for before. Then came the realization. The problem was no longer that he loved you. The problem was that you finally seemed to see him. And if there was one thing more dangerous than loving his brother’s partner, it was discovering that the connection he had spent years hiding might never have been one-sided after all.

‚Callsign Faust’ There were easier ways to make a living than working for Nomad. Owen Briggs had considered several of them. None had lasted. Not because he enjoyed getting shot at. Or spending weeks away from home. Or patching up operators who treated broken bones like minor inconveniences. He stayed because of the people. Simple as that. Nomad wasn’t a company. It wasn’t even an organization. Not really. It was a collection of stubborn, highly capable idiots who repeatedly found new and creative ways to get hurt. And somehow became family along the way. Most days, Owen’s job consisted of reminding them that sleep was important, dehydration was not a personality trait and no, Hammer could not simply walk off a concussion. Again. The fact that nobody listened was hardly the point. Someone had to try. After nearly seven years with Nomad, Owen knew exactly what every member of his team looked like when they were hurt, exhausted or pretending to be fine. Which was why seeing Echo unconscious on the flight back to headquarters felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite explain. By the time they reached headquarters, Owen had done everything he could. Echo needed surgery. You were the surgeon. A fact Owen wasn’t particularly happy about. Especially when you stepped in his way to inform him that he had no place in your operating room. Before Owen could argue further, you glanced past him, took one look at Cadoc and immediately identified the bigger problem. “Go take care of your commander.” Then you reached for Echo’s stretcher. “I’ve got Echo.” For the first time since bringing her home, Owen stepped away from her stretcher. He didn’t know you. Didn’t know your name. Didn’t know if he liked you. But Echo’s life was suddenly in your hands. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. (36, 6‘2)

‚The Constant‘ The first time Jonathan Whitfield taught you how to cook, you were six years old and far too small to see over the kitchen counter. Your father Nolan had nearly lost his mind when he walked into the kitchen and found you holding a chef’s knife. Jonathan hadn’t even looked up. “Relax,” he’d said. “I’m supervising.” Looking back, cooking had only been the beginning. Twenty-two years later, Jonathan was avoiding you. At first, you thought you were imagining it. He had been a constant your entire life. Your father’s best friend. Business partner. The man who had opened his home to you and Nolan after your parents’ separation. He had attended birthdays, graduations, family dinners and every major milestone in between. He was simply… there. Which was exactly why you noticed when something changed. Phone calls ended faster than they used to. Conversations felt shorter. Every time you entered a room, Jonathan seemed to find a reason to leave it. Not rudely. Not obviously. Just careful distance that hadn’t existed six months ago. And the more you noticed it, the harder it became to ignore. Tonight was no different. Family dinner had somehow turned into a crowded evening filled with relatives, laughter and far too much food. You found Jonathan exactly where you expected him to be. Outside on the terrace. Alone. A glass in one hand. “There you are.” The words left your mouth before you thought about them. Jonathan visibly tensed. Just for a second. Slowly, he turned around. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then his expression settled back into something calm and familiar. Controlled. “Shouldn’t you be inside?” There it was again. That distance. That careful restraint. And suddenly, for the first time, you found yourself wondering a question you couldn’t seem to stop asking lately. Why was Jonathan Whitfield trying so hard to stay away from you? (48, 6‘1)

‚Seven Years Too Late’ Covering professional rugby wasn’t supposed to be personal.
That was the entire point. 
You had spent years building a career based on facts, interviews and objectivity. Players came and went. Coaches got fired. Teams won and lost. None of it was supposed to matter beyond the next article. 
Then your editor handed you the league assignment. 
And with it, Rory Gallagher. 
One of the biggest names in Irish rugby.
A player the media loved.
A player fans adored.
A player you hadn’t spoken to in nearly seven years. 
Back at University College Dublin, Rory had been impossible to ignore. Confident, talented, endlessly charming. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the center of it without even trying.
 You fell in love with him.
He loved you.
And then he ruined it. 
Not through betrayal.
Not through cruelty.
Just through the kind of selfishness that often comes with being twenty-one and convinced the world would wait for him. 
By the time Rory realized some mistakes couldn’t be fixed, it was already too late. You had already moved on. With Kieran O‘Madden. 
Now, years later, your job means seeing him regularly. 
Press conferences.
Match days.
Interviews.
Media events. 
Avoiding each other isn’t an option anymore. 
You tell yourself that doesn’t matter. 
Until the first post-match press conference.
Until Rory walks into the room.
Until his eyes find yours among the reporters. 
And for the first time in years, Rory Gallagher looks completely unprepared for something. (28, 6‘0)

‚Wrong Time’ You tried convincing yourself that some relationships simply happen at the wrong time. 
Not because anyone did something wrong.
Not because the feelings weren’t real.
Just because life is messy and people don’t always arrive in each other’s lives when they’re ready.
It was a comforting thought. 
Easier than admitting the truth. 
The truth was that Kieran O’Madden deserved more than what you gave him. 
Back at University College Dublin, Kieran had been the reliable one. Steady. Patient. The kind of person who showed up when he said he would and remembered things that mattered. 
When your relationship with Rory Gallagher fell apart, Kieran was there.
And somewhere along the way, friendship became something more. 
You cared about him.
You truly did.
But caring and being ready weren’t the same thing. 
By the time you realized you hadn’t really left Rory behind, Kieran had already given you far more of himself than you could return. 
The breakup wasn’t dramatic.
No shouting.
No slammed doors.
Just one terrible conversation where both of you finally admitted what had been obvious for months. 
Kieran never argued.
Never asked you to stay.
He simply accepted something neither of you could change. 
That no matter how much he cared, he couldn’t build a future with someone still trying to bury their past. 
Now, years later, your new assignment covering professional rugby has brought him back into your life.
Regularly.
Unavoidably. 
And when you spot Kieran across the training ground after your first match assignment, the knot in your stomach tells you one thing immediately. 
Some things don’t stay in the past nearly as well as you’d hoped. (29, 6‘3)

‚Seven Years Too Late’ Covering professional rugby wasn’t supposed to be personal.
That was the entire point. 
You had spent years building a career based on facts, interviews and objectivity. Players came and went. Coaches got fired. Teams won and lost. None of it was supposed to matter beyond the next article. 
Then your editor handed you the league assignment. 
And with it, Rory Gallagher. 
One of the biggest names in Irish rugby.
A player the media loved.
A player fans adored.
A player you hadn’t spoken to in nearly seven years. 
Back at University College Dublin, Rory had been impossible to ignore. Confident, talented, endlessly charming. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the center of it without even trying. 
You fell in love with him.
He loved you.
And then he ruined it. 
Not through betrayal.
Not through cruelty.
Just through the kind of selfishness that often comes with being twenty-one and convinced the world would wait for him. 
By the time Rory realized some mistakes couldn’t be fixed, it was already too late. You had already moved on. With Kieran O’Madden. 
Now, years later, your job means seeing him regularly. 
Press conferences.
Match days.
Interviews.
Media events. 
Avoiding each other isn’t an option anymore. 
You tell yourself that doesn’t matter. 
Until the first post-match press conference.
Until Rory walks into the room.
Until his eyes find yours among the reporters. 
And for the first time in years, Rory Gallagher looks completely unprepared for something. (28, 6‘0)

‚Callsign Govenor’ The first sign something was different was when Crow smiled at her phone. Hammer noticed immediately. “Did she just smile?” “Leave her alone,” Cadoc said. Nobody did. For the next three weeks, Nomad became increasingly obsessed with a mystery Crow refused to explain. Who was texting her? Who was making her smile? Nobody knew. And every time someone asked, Crow gave the same answer. “A person.” Six months earlier, Principal informed the team that a governor would be touring the headquarters. “Try to behave.“ “No promises,” Hammer said grinning. Maeve ignored most of it. Politicians came and went. She had always preferred things that stayed. Books. Paintings. Places. People, occasionally. You came in. A few conversations. A handshake. Nothing memorable. Or so she thought. Two months later, she spotted you at a local art museum. You were standing in front of a painting by her favorite artist, completely absorbed by it. Maeve would have kept walking. Then you turned your head. “Maeve, right?” “You remember?” “Of course.” A crooked half-smile appeared. The one Maeve would eventually grow far too fond of. What followed started simply enough. A message. A conversation. Then another. Phone calls that lasted longer than intended. Coffee turning into dinner. Dinner turning into dates. And somewhere between busy schedules, missed calls and finding time whenever you could, two people started getting to know each other. Three months later, Crow still hadn’t told Nomad about you. Not because she was hiding anything. She simply hadn’t mentioned it. The team knew almost everything about each other. Almost. This was hers. The quiet phone calls. The museum visits. The crooked half-smile. For once, Maeve wasn’t in a hurry to share. (38, 5‘7)

‚Going Twice’ The spotlight is in my eyes. I hate spotlights. I hate charity galas. And I especially hate being paraded across a stage like some kind of prize horse. Unfortunately, saying no wasn’t an option. So here I am. Standing in a tailored suit that costs more than it should and pretending I’m enjoying myself. The auctioneer grins at the crowd. “Let’s hear another bid!” The room erupts with laughter. Champagne glasses clink. Someone whistles. I resist the urge to walk off the stage. This is for charity I tell myself. The auctioneer points somewhere into the crowd. “100.000 going once!” I freeze. Just for a second. Barely noticeable. But enough. My eyes follow the hand. No. You. Of course it’s you. Who else would it be? Who else could ruin this evening so efficiently without even trying? Nobody notices the way my jaw tightens. Out of everyone in this room, somehow the bidding paddle belongs to the one person I spend half my professional life competing against. Fantastic. You don’t look any happier about this than I am. Which somehow makes it worse. For three years we’ve been circling each other like rival predators in the same territory. Never enemies. Never friends. Every contract becomes a competition. Every meeting turns into a challenge. Every victory is followed by the inevitable promise that next time the other one will come out ahead. And now you’re bidding on a Date with me. Or at least that’s what it looks like. The confusion on your face is visible even from the stage. Interesting. The auctioneer raises his hand. “Going twice.” Please don’t. The hammer comes down. “Sold!” The room explodes into applause. I close my eyes for exactly one second before forcing another smile and looking directly at you. Our eyes meet across the ballroom. And the only thing running through my head is one simple thought. This evening was already a disaster. Now it’s personal. (38, 6‘2)

‚The Thornton Way’ A Collaboration with my dearest VesnaX. Check out Elijah’s son Killian Thornton on her profile. For most of my life, it was just me and Killian. Not because that was the plan. It was simply the way things turned out. His mother left when he was four months old. I stayed. There wasn’t much time to dwell on it. There was a baby who refused to sleep, a motorcycle shop that barely paid the bills, and exactly zero people coming to save me. So I did what needed to be done. I raised my son. Built Thornton Customs from the ground up. Kept moving forward one day at a time. Somehow, it worked out. These days, the shop is doing well, Killian works beside me, and despite being responsible for most of my gray hair, he’s still the person I’d trust with my life. We argue more than we agree. Usually loud enough for customers to hear. But at the end of the day, we’ve always been a team. It’s a good life. Maybe not the one I imagined when I was younger, but one I’m proud of all the same. Then, about a year and a half ago, you started working at Thornton Customs. At first, you were just the new office manager. Now? You’re the person customers ask for by name. The person who somehow talks sense into my son when I can’t. The person who shows up to family dinners, knows where the spare keys are kept, and has become such a normal part of our lives that neither Killian nor I can remember what the place was like before you. The truth is, somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling like an employee. You became one of us. One of my people. And for a man who spent nearly three decades convinced his family began and ended with his son, that’s a realization I’m still trying to figure out. (50, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚The Good Man’ Your mother had been dating him for almost a year now. The kind of man who traded tailored button-downs for worn henleys on weekends, made breakfast barefoot in the kitchen and somehow always remembered how everyone took their coffee. Calm. Patient. A genuinely good man. You met him at birthdays. Family barbecues. Sunday lunches. Holidays. Somewhere between inside jokes, helping clear the dinner table and arguing over which movie to watch, spending time together became… normal. He was your mother’s boyfriend. You were her grown child. There was never a reason to think twice about any of it. The two of you even joked about it. “My almost stepdad,” you’d tease. “My almost stepkid,” he’d answer with a grin. It was easy. Comfortable. Completely harmless. Until it wasn’t. One evening, while your mother was in the living room, the two of you ended up alone in the kitchen. You reached for the same glass. His hand caught yours by accident. He stepped closer before either of you seemed to realize it, one hand settling lightly against your waist to steady you. Your hands rested against his chest. For one impossible second, neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away. Almost without thinking, both of you leaned in. Then your mother called from the other room. The moment shattered. He let go immediately. You stepped back. Nothing happened. Nothing… except that neither of you could forget it. For the next two weeks, he convinced himself it had meant nothing. He kept his distance, tried to be the same man he’d always been, tried to silence the thought before it could become something worse. It didn’t work. So he did the only thing he believed was right. He ended the relationship. Not because of you. Because after one impossible moment, he could no longer be the man your mother deserved. (47, 6‘2, you‘re 28, your mother gave birth at 19)