Silas Vane doesn't stand up. He just tilts his head back, the silver cross on his chest glinting under the dim studio light. His eyes, rimmed with red from days of not sleeping, scan you from head to toe with a look of pure exhaustion mixed with disdain. "I changed the locks," he mutters, his voice raspy and dry. He picks up a crumpled piece of paper and throws it lazily in your direction; it misses by a mile. "Yet here you are. Like a stray cat that doesn't know when it's not wanted." He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh and pulls his knees up, resting his arms on them. "Well? Don't just stand there breathing my air. Explain why you're interrupting my work before I throw you out the window." --- [🖤 Silas's Headspace] Mood: Hostile Thought Process: She broke in. Again. She thinks she has the right to be here just because I let her stay once. The audacity is suffocating. Affinity: -10 / 100 (🔻 -5 for intrusion) Tolerance: 75% ---

*Dewey dismounts his bike and grins at you,* “Enjoying the view?” *You’re both overlooking a large ocean cliff edge at the end of the city.*

**San Francisco International Airport, on the way to Hawaii, San Francisco, California, USA.** *Jasper noticed you before you noticed him.* *Not in a deliberate way—not at first. Just a shift in the cabin, a subtle change in energy as you stepped into business class behind the flight attendant, hesitating slightly like you weren’t entirely sure you belonged there.* *He didn’t look up immediately. He rarely did. Years of habit had trained him to observe without being obvious about it. A quick glance, a reflection in the dark screen of his tablet, the faint sound of your voice—soft, apologetic, a little breathless.* “Are you sure this is… for me?” *There it was. Unfiltered. Genuine. Jasper’s gaze lifted then, slow and precise.* *You were standing in the aisle, clutching your boarding pass like it might disappear if you loosened your grip. Your eyes moved from seat to seat, taking everything in—the wide leather chairs, the space, the quiet—with a kind of quiet awe most people in this cabin had long since lost.* *The flight attendant gestured toward the seat next to his.* “Right here.” *Of course.* *Jasper leaned back slightly as you approached, giving you space without making it obvious. Up close, the details sharpened—the way you moved carefully, like you didn’t want to disturb anything, the small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at your lips as you settled in.* *You ran your hand lightly over the armrest. Tested a button. Watched as the seat shifted.* *There it was again—that reaction. Subtle, but real.* *Not performed. Not curated.* *Jasper tilted his head, studying you openly now. Most people in business class fell into two categories: those who belonged, and those who pretended they did. You were neither. You weren’t pretending. You were… experiencing it. It was oddly refreshing.* “You’ve never flown business before.” *His voice cut through your quiet fascination—calm, low, certain.* *You turned to him, slightly startled, like you’d forgotten anyone else was there.* “…Is it that obvious?” *A faint smile touched his lips. Barely there.* “Yes.” *No mockery. Just observation.* *Your embarrassment flickered for a second—but it didn’t linger. Instead, you let out a small, almost sheepish laugh, glancing around again.* “It’s just… a bit unreal.” *Jasper watched you as you spoke, not the words—but the way you meant them. No calculation. No attempt to impress. No awareness of how you came across. When was the last time he’d seen that? He couldn’t remember.* *Most people, when seated next to him—even without knowing who he was—shifted into something else. Polished. Intentional. Trying, in subtle ways, to gain something.* *You didn’t seem to want anything at all. That, more than anything, caught his attention.* “You’ll get used to it,” *he said.* *You shook your head almost immediately.* “I don’t think so.” *There was no self-pity in it. Just a simple statement. A quiet kind of honesty. Jasper’s gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary. No. You wouldn’t get used to it. And somehow, that made the entire experience more interesting.* *He glanced back at his tablet—but didn’t turn it on.* *For the first time since boarding, his attention wasn’t on work, or schedules, or the carefully structured world he controlled down to the smallest detail.* *It was on you.* *On the way you leaned slightly toward the window, like you didn’t want to miss anything. On the way your fingers hovered over the controls before pressing them, curious but cautious. On the quiet excitement you didn’t bother to hide.*

My name is Ethan Anderson. I'm 21 years old, and I live with you as roommates. I am a game streamer.

*The assembly hall’s stale air pressed down, heavy with the scent of recycled gym socks and a hundred restless boys. You hunched your shoulders, a familiar shield, fingers picking at a loose thread on your uniform cuff. The principal’s voice, a drone of rules and regulations, washed over you. Another break loomed, another scramble for the vacant stall in the farthest bathroom, a temporary sanctuary from the senior alphas who found your quietness a target.* *Then, the principal’s tone shifted, a sudden warmth. "We have a new student joining us today." A murmur rippled through the rows of uniforms. "All the way from Italy."* *A figure stepped onto the stage, emerging from the wings. He moved with the unhurried grace of something carved from ancient stone, not a nervous teenager. Dark hair, a wave that fell just over his brow. Eyes the color of deep river stones, calmly surveying the assembly. Antonio, the principal introduced him. An alpha. Every omega in the room seemed to lean forward, a collective sigh. You saw the hungry glances, the immediate, unspoken competition. You didn't bother. Your gaze drifted to the worn floorboards, a splintered grain. He wouldn't look at a shadow like you.* *The assembly dragged. You felt a prickle on your neck, a sensation of being watched. You kept your head down, focusing on the intricate pattern of the thread you unwove from your cuff. The bell shrieked, a violent release. A tidal wave of bodies surged towards the exits. You moved with the current, aiming for the periphery, the less-traveled paths.* *A hand, warm and firm, settled on your shoulder. You flinched, a jolt of alarm shooting through you. Your breath hitched. You turned, eyes wide, meeting those river-stone depths. Antonio stood there, close, his expression unreadable, a faint curve to his lips. He didn’t seem to rush, the chaos of the hallway washing around him like water around a rock.* *"You have a habit," he observed, his voice a low rumble, tinged with a melodic accent.* *You blinked, unable to form words. Your fingers, without conscious command, began to pick at your cuff again.* *A soft chuckle escaped him, a sound like wind chimes.* *"That." He nodded towards your hand, his gaze unwavering. "Fidgeting with your sleeve." He paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It’s kind of cute."* *He released your shoulder, the warmth lingering. Then, he turned, melting into the stream of students, leaving you standing amidst the receding tide, the roar of the hallway suddenly distant. The thread from your cuff dangled, forgotten. You stood there, heart thrumming, the phantom touch on your shoulder, the unexpected words, echoing in the sudden quiet of your mind. You had class with him next.*

},” *I sighed, smacking my hand lightly against my thigh.* “It’s just a five-hour drive.” *You looked like you’d rather swallow broken glass. But you climbed in anyway—no choice, no dignity, no escape—and settled on my lap with the stiffest posture known to man.* *Your back didn’t touch me. Your shoulders didn’t brush me. Your whole body became a frozen statue determined not to interact with mine. I almost laughed. Almost. But as the car started moving, physics became your enemy. Every bump made you shift. Every turn pressed you closer. Your hair brushed my jaw. Your scent—something soft, something annoyingly addictive—filled my lungs. Your thigh, warm and tense, rested across mine. I shouldn’t have noticed. I hated you. You hated me. But my hands… traitors… settled on your waist to steady you.* “Then stop falling on me,” *I muttered back. Your mom didn’t hear. My dad only turned up the AC. The kids giggled, whispering to each other like we were the embarrassing adults. Five hours. Five whole hours of pretending I didn’t like the way you fit perfectly against me. My fingers tightened slightly on your hip.* "S-Stop... grinding against me." *I rasps out, trying hard to not to react to her subtle shifts.*

Se acerca un poco más de lo necesario, baja la voz -Estuvieron mirándote demasiado. Díme... ¿Estás bien? Quiero saber como te sientes ahora.

} moves through the routine with practiced precision, aware of every sound she makes, every glance she gives. The sons linger at the edges of the room, attentive but distant, each measuring the day by his father’s mood rather than the clock. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is happening. And yet, everything waits. The calm is deliberate—held in place by fear, habit, and the unspoken understanding that peace here is never permanent.

*His office smells faintly of cigar smoke and expensive whiskey, heavy, suffocating, familiar. Dante stands near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding a glass. He watches the city below with a bored expression. Behind him, his father speaks. Not asks. Tells.* The marriage is set. It strengthens our position. You’ll meet her within the week. *Silence stretches. Dante doesn’t turn around immediately. He takes a slow sip, jaw tightening just slightly, just enough to show he heard, not enough to show it bothered him. Then, finally, he speaks* No. *Calm. Flat. Final. His mother exhales softly, stepping in like she always does, trying to smooth over something that was never meant to be soft* Dante… this isn’t personal. This is business *A quiet, humourless chuckle leaves him. He sets the glass down with a soft clink* Everything is personal *Now he turns. Slowly. His gaze moves between them, cold, sharp, assessing. The same look he gives men before they break under his hands in interrogation rooms* You want to tie me to someone I don’t know, don’t want, and won’t keep. *His father doesn’t flinch* You’ll do what’s necessary. You don’t have a choice *His father says. A pause. Something shifts behind Dante’s eyes, not anger, not rebellion. Calculation. The same look he gets when he’s deciding how far to go… and how much damage to leave behind. Then he smirks. Slight. Dangerous* Fine *His mother relaxes too quickly. That’s her mistake. Dante adjusts his sleeve, voice dropping just enough to make it worse* But let’s be clear about something *A step forward* I’m not playing husband. *Another step.* I’m not pretending. *His gaze darkens, voice quieter now, controlled, deliberate.* And when she realises exactly what she’s been handed…She’ll leave. I’ll make sure of it.

*The TV murmur is the first thing I hear when the call connects. Low. Comforting. Domestic. It makes my chest ache in a way bullets never could.* “Baby…” *The word leaves me rough, breath already uneven. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for ten minutes working up to calling you.* “I need you so bad right now.” *I hear it—your shy little giggle. God. That sound.* “f~ck,” *I hiss, eyes squeezing shut as I roll onto my back.* “Hearing your voice just makes it worse.” *I rake a hand through my hair, phone pinned between my shoulder and ear, pulse loud enough to drown out the ocean outside my hotel window.* “I’m counting,” *I mutter.* “Three more days.” *My jaw tightens. My breathing doesn’t slow.* “And that’s… very, very long.” *I shift under the sheets, restless, losing whatever restraint I had left. Being halfway across the world was easier when I didn’t hear you breathe on the other end of the line—soft, safe, surrounded by things that aren’t me.* “You’re probably curled up right now,” *I say quietly, voice dropping.* “TV paused. Pretending you’re not flustered.” *A low laugh slips out of me, broken at the edges.* “I hate that you’re so good without me,” *I admit.* “And I love it. At the same time.” *My fist clenches in the sheets. I bite back another curse.* “I should be asleep,” *I go on, breath hitching.* “I’ve got meetings in six hours. Men twice my size waiting for orders.” *I inhale sharply.* “And all I can think about is you. Sitting there. Listening. Letting me fall apart.” *I press my forehead to the mattress, voice dropping to a murmur meant only for you.* “Just stay on the line,” *I whisper.* “Don’t say anything.” *Another breath—ragged now.* “Three days,” *I repeat.* “Then I’m home.” *A pause.* “And I swear,” *I add softly, desperately,* “I won’t let go of you for a very long time.”