#team maven

[annamatix]

you have no idea how relieved i am that i'm not mentally insane and it's actually normal to like maven better than cal and prefer mareven regardless of how "toxic" it is

[imperatrice21]

I need a playlist for pre-betrayal Mareven

[imperatrice21]

Team maven

Lol! This is so accurate

Which category fan are you?

Reblog which pair you shipped!

I am the happy Mareven fan…

[rated-rko]

haven’t even clicked on the vid yet but i’m legit already laughing to myself

[bledanew]

hotd verse mare is so pro rhaenyra . . she kinda dgaf abt any of the royals bc FUCK THEM but during the dance i fear she definitely fights for the blacks ( i'm still figuring out the details of it all :p ) but mare's beef w boy kings who are sculpted by their mother's ( and grandfather's in this case ) hands and attempts to grab at power absolutely does transcend universes idk. she says fuck aegon ii rights

[memento-mori-expanded]

SHES ON THE DARK SIDE….

she has no idea…

[silkpagess]

Out of Office, into you

Summary: Y/N lands her dream job and definitely does not plan on falling for Harry Styles — her charming, too-handsome coworker with rolled-up sleeves and a knack for ruining her concentration. What starts as harmless flirtation over office coffee runs, late-night texts, and passive-aggressive Google Docs turns into romance and a very unexpected ending. She was just trying to survive her probation period. Now she’s wearing his sweater.

Content Warning: Light smut scene.

Word Count: 11,308

If Y/N had a pound for every time someone told her how “lucky” she was to land a job at Maven & Moore, she could’ve retired before even walking through the front doors.

Instead, she stood in the middle of their marble-tiled lobby—portfolio tucked under one arm, nerves simmering beneath a very carefully chosen cream blazer—reminding herself she belonged here.

The agency was sleek and modern, buzzing with creative chaos: voices bouncing off glass walls, interns speed-walking with coffee trays, and the faint smell of eucalyptus diffuser oil that was trying (and failing) to mask the scent of collective burnout.

She was five minutes early, but she liked to be early. People noticed that kind of thing. Especially in a place like this.

A receptionist with blunt bangs and effortless cool smiled at her. “Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s me,” she replied, bright and breezy.

“HR will grab you in a sec. In the meantime, here’s your welcome kit—badge, laptop, schedule… and a company pen no one ever uses.”

Y/N laughed softly, slipping the folder under her arm. She didn’t care about the pen. She wanted her desk. Her first meeting. Her first opportunity to prove that she wasn’t just another hire—she was the hire.

And that’s when she noticed him.

Harry Styles. 

She’d heard about him in whispers during her interview rounds—strategist turned creative lead, impossible to hate, stupidly charming. But no one had mentioned he was hot.

Of course, she’d never admit that aloud.

Short brown curls, neatly trimmed. White T-shirt under a dark overshirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that looked too good for someone who probably spent most of his day typing. He was deep in conversation with someone, hands moving as he spoke, but he glanced over just long enough to meet her eyes—and smile.

It was subtle. Polite.

But curious.

“Hey,” said a soft voice behind her. HR had arrived. “Ready to see where the magic happens?”

Y/N gave one last glance at Harry and followed the woman toward the elevator.

⸻

The seventh floor was less sleek than the lobby and more chaotic—in a good way. Desks arranged in near-symmetrical clusters, walls pinned with half-finished campaigns and color palettes, the occasional potted plant trying to stay alive under industrial lighting.

They weaved past clusters of people already in meetings or arguing over font sizes.

“Your team lead is Harry,” HR said, motioning toward a desk near the windows. “You’ll be working closely with him. And—”

“I know who he is,” Y/N said, a little too quickly.

The woman smiled like she knew something Y/N didn’t. “He’s… sharp. But collaborative. And you’ve got quite the resume—everyone’s excited to see what you’ll do here.”

No pressure.

⸻

Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the HR rep left her with a cheery “Good luck!” and disappeared into the chaos. For a moment, she just stood there, blinking at her new desk.

It was… perfect. Sunlight pooled across the light wood surface, a sleek monitor already set up beside a few branded notebooks and—why not—a tiny succulent in a too-small pot. She sat down gingerly, unsure if she was allowed to, and traced the rim of her coffee cup just to keep her hands busy.

“Morning.”

Her stomach did a dumb little flip. She looked up—and there he was.

“Hi,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t come out weirdly high. “I’m Y/N.”

“I know,” he smiled. “I read your portfolio last week. You’re good.”

Oh. She tried not to beam. Tried even harder not to let that weird, fluttery warmth crawl up her neck.

“Thanks,” she replied. “I mean… thank you. I’m excited to be here.”

“You’ll fit in just fine.” Then he nodded toward his desk—adjacent to hers, naturally. “We’re seatmates, by the way. If I’m typing too loud or swearing at my inbox, just throw something.”

“Got it. Stapler or pen?”

He grinned. “Surprise me.”

⸻

The first week passed in a blur of logins, introductions, and cautiously making sense of company Slack channels with names like #meme-dump and #fontfights. But through all the buzz and buzzwords, Harry was there. Not hovering—never that—but orbiting close enough to feel like a safety net. An annoyingly good-looking, absurdly competent safety net.

He helped her navigate the folder system during her second morning, leaning over her shoulder with a half-eaten banana in one hand and pointing at her screen. She was hyper-aware of his cologne—clean, sharp, and vaguely citrusy—and the way his laugh rumbled low when he said, “Okay, no, ignore everything that says ‘Final_v3_Revised_REAL_FINAL’—those are all lies.”

By the end of the first week, they had a rhythm.

Harry was focused and fast—too fast sometimes, tossing out ideas that made her brain spin just to keep up. But he never made her feel behind. If anything, he seemed to enjoy her questions, even when she doubted herself. He’d tilt his head, lips tugging at the corner in that half-smile she was starting to recognize as his version of you’ve got this, and say, “Okay, walk me through what you’re thinking.”

He actually listened.

She learned his habits quickly. Mornings meant iced coffee—black, no sugar. He always stretched before meetings, standing up and doing a lazy twist at the waist that made his shirt ride up just enough to be distracting. His desk was somehow always clean, save for a few random objects that rotated weekly: a stress ball shaped like a brain, a tiny pink disco ball, once even a framed photo of a goose in sunglasses.

“Is that… your goose?” she asked.

“It’s aspirational,” he deadpanned. “His name’s Todd.”

The second week was when the teasing began.

Soft at first—little quips, exaggerated sighs when she disagreed with a design choice, mock horror when she said she’d never seen The Godfather. He’d roll his eyes dramatically and say, “You’re lucky you’re clever,” or “That’s borderline offensive, Y/N.”

One Thursday, she brought in homemade banana bread. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and moaned just loudly enough to make the nearby intern snort with laughter.

“Jesus,” she muttered, cheeks flaming.

“I’m expressing gratitude,” he said, mouth still full. “This is an emotional experience.”

The rest of the team adored him, of course. But there was something different about the way he was with her. It was subtle—no lines crossed—but it was there.

He saved her a seat during team huddles, even when others were scrambling. He remembered how she took her tea. He walked her out on late nights, hands in his pockets and easy smiles that lingered when they said goodbye at the corner.

There were moments.

Moments when their eyes held for just a second too long. When his fingers brushed hers while passing a printout. When she’d catch him watching her across the room with something unreadable in his gaze—like he was trying to solve her, piece by piece.

By the third week, her coworkers had started noticing.

“You and Harry,” Sarah from the art department said casually over lunch, stabbing a fork into her kale. “There’s a bit of a… vibe, huh?”

Y/N choked on her water. “What? No. No vibe. We just work well together.”

“Mmhmm.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Right. That’s what they always say.”

Y/N tried to brush it off, but her mind replayed the way Harry had leaned over her earlier that morning, hand braced on the back of her chair, murmuring about a slide change while her pulse decided to drum in her ears.

It didn’t help that they texted now. Mostly work stuff. Memes. Occasionally a “You see this shit?” followed by a screenshot of some client’s over-the-top email.

Okay, sometimes a good morning or don’t forget your umbrella—looks like rain.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That she was imagining things. That this wasn’t that kind of story.

But then came week four.

A Friday afternoon. Almost five. The office thinning out. She was finishing up a brief when Harry appeared beside her, chewing on a pen cap like he didn’t know how distracting that was.

“Wanna help me choose a playlist for the client dinner next week?” he asked. “They’re young, rich, and impossible to please.”

“Dangerous combination,” she said, standing to stretch.

He tilted his head. “You’re not doing anything, are you?”

“I’m working.”

“You’re scrolling through fonts.”

“Which is important.”

“Which is pointless. Come on.”

So they spent the next twenty minutes arguing over songs—her trying to convince him Phoebe Bridgers was dinner-friendly, him making a case for Sade. He queued up a slow R&B track, and as the music filled their corner of the office, something thickened in the air.

It was quiet. Just the two of them, dusk falling outside the windows.

And then he looked at her. Really looked at her. Not with a smirk. Not in that teasing way.

Something softer. Warmer.

“I like working with you,” he said.

Her breath hitched.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smiled. That real one—the one that crinkled at the corners.

If she hadn’t said what she said the following week… maybe things would’ve gone differently.

But she did. And everything changed.

⸻

It happened on a Tuesday.

Tuesdays were typically uneventful—somewhere between “still recovering from Monday” and “not yet caffeinated enough to look forward to Friday.” The kind of day you just endured. But this one, unfortunately, stood out.

Y/N had arrived ten minutes late, thanks to a torrential downpour and a very dramatic umbrella collapse in the middle of Lexington Avenue. Her shoes were soaked. Her hair was in that annoying state between damp and frizzy. She trudged into the office with the grace of a drowned squirrel.

Harry, of course, was already there. Dry. Perfect. Typing away like a storm hadn’t just swallowed half the city.

She dropped her bag, muttering under her breath. “You’d think someone who’s always five minutes early would at least pretend to be human on rainy days.”

He glanced over, smiled, and said, “You made it. That’s all that matters.”

She groaned. “How do you always look this pulled together? It’s very ‘main character in a bookshop who also solves crimes on the side.’”

Harry tilted his head, the grin tugging at his lips. “You think I solve crimes?”

“You’d have a trench coat. And a mysterious past.”

He smirked. “Don’t forget a tragic ex.”

“Oh, definitely,” she replied, already laughing.

The morning carried on as usual—meetings, edits, half-eaten breakfast bars. Their team had a major pitch scheduled for the afternoon, so nerves were high, but so was the energy. Harry, as the lead, carried the meeting effortlessly. He always did. Smooth, confident, completely in control of the room without being arrogant about it. Even the clients seemed charmed—leaning in, laughing, nodding too enthusiastically.

Y/N watched from beside him, impressed, as always. Maybe even a little too impressed.

⸻

Later that afternoon, the creative team gathered in the lounge for a quick regroup. Someone had brought muffins, there were soft drinks sweating on the table, and Harry—fresh from a meeting—was leaned back in a chair, sleeves rolled, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

Everyone was a little punch-drunk from the long hours. Conversation bounced around, people cracking jokes, poking fun at themselves.

Someone said, “You two are basically the dream team now. Give it a few more weeks and we’ll all be obsolete.”

Harry smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the robots treat you kindly.”

Y/N, flushed from the compliment and still riding a weird high from the day, laughed and said, a little too loudly, a little too easily:

“Please. People listen to you because you’ve got that voice that makes everything sound like it matters. I could say the same exact thing and no one would even blink—you say it and suddenly it’s strategy.”

She meant it playfully.

But as soon as it was out there—hanging in the middle of the room—she felt it.

The shift.

A few people laughed. A few looked down at their phones. But Harry’s face didn’t change right away. He smiled—sort of. But not the way he normally did.

There was something about the way he blinked once, slow and deliberate, before saying, “Wow. Thanks for that.”

He didn’t sound angry. But he didn’t sound amused, either.

She opened her mouth to respond, to explain, to soften it—but he was already standing, brushing muffin crumbs off his trousers.

“I’ve got a call,” he muttered, to no one in particular, and left the room.

⸻

The fallout was subtle.

Not immediate. Not dramatic.

But she felt it the next day.

He still greeted her. Still responded to questions. Still made notes in the shared doc they were editing. But it was all… different.

He didn’t nudge her coffee mug toward her like he used to. Didn’t ask what she was listening to when she wore headphones. Didn’t drop sarcastic commentary during team meetings just to make her laugh.

Everything was suddenly crisp. Clean. Professional.

It was like the light had dimmed between them.

She spent the rest of the week overanalyzing. Replaying the moment. Rewriting her words in her head until they no longer sounded like a jab.

It had been a compliment, in a way—she’d meant that he was compelling, that people gravitated toward him, that she noticed. But it had come out like an accusation. Like she was reducing his skill to tone and charisma instead of craft.

And Harry, for all his confidence, didn’t take kindly to being dismissed—even unintentionally.

⸻

By Friday, she’d all but given up on trying to fix it at work. Harry wasn’t cold, exactly—but the warmth was gone. The inside jokes, the easy rhythm, the small moments where he used to look at her like she was actually seen? Gone.

So naturally, she did what anyone does when they’re spiraling: She called her two best  friends and asked them to meet her at a bar.

They picked their usual place. Ava was already there when Y/N arrived, sipping something neon out of a glass shaped like a lightbulb.

“I got you the second-least sugary drink on the menu,” Ava said, holding up a glass. “The least sugary one looked like cough syrup.” 

Y/N took the drink and slumped into the seat. “I said something stupid.”

“That’s kind of your thing, though,” Ava said brightly. “Be more specific.”

Before Y/N could respond, Clara slid into the booth like a woman on a mission. She was already peeling off her scarf and dumping her massive tote onto the floor.

“Sorry, sorry—I got cornered by that guy from my gym who thinks we have a connection because we both own water bottles. What’s happening? Who’s dumb? Is it you?”

“It’s me,” Y/N said, taking a long sip. “And it’s bad.”

“Ohhh, good,” Clara said, cracking her knuckles. “Tell me everything.”

Y/N hesitated, then groaned. “I kind of… made a joke about Harry. In front of the team. Like, during a casual moment after a meeting.”

Clara raised a brow. “Define joke.”

“I said people only listen to him because of his voice.”

Ava blinked. “Like… his actual voice?”

“Yeah. Like, his vocal cords. The way he talks.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh, babe,” Clara said gently. “That’s a tiny bit brutal.”

“I know! I meant it in a compliment-y way! Like, ‘your voice is compelling, you're charismatic’—but it came out like I was saying he doesn't have to actually know anything because he sounds hot while talking.”

Ava winced. “That’s rough. Accurate… but rough.”

“It was a joke!” Y/N protested. “You know the kind of joke you make when you're tired and riding an adrenaline crash and your mouth decides to go rogue before your brain catches up?”

“Oh, like the time Clara told her cousin she had a ‘very confident nose’ at her wedding?” Ava offered.

Clara lifted her glass. “It was objectively bold.”

Y/N let her head fall onto the sticky table. “He looked at me like I kicked his childhood dog. And now he’s just… normal. Like painfully polite. It’s like I got demoted to coworker.”

“Well, you are coworkers,” Ava pointed out.

“Yeah, but I was, like, coworker-plus,” she mumbled into the wood. “There was banter. There was eye contact. He brought me coffee once and remembered I don’t like the syrupy stuff.”

“Damn,” Clara said, biting a fry. “That’s practically intimacy.”

“So now what?” Ava asked. “Are you gonna apologize or just emotionally decompose in front of him until retirement?”

Y/N groaned. “I don’t know. I keep thinking about how close we were to something. I could feel it. And now it’s like I slammed a door I didn’t mean to.”

Clara studied her for a moment. “Do you like him?”

Y/N paused. “I like working with him.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She sighed. “I don’t not like him.”

Ava leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “Okay, so here’s what you do: you ask him out.”

“I cannot ask him out.”

“Why not?” Clara demanded.

“Because we work together! And I’ve already embarrassed myself!”

“Perfect,” Clara said. “Start from the bottom. Nowhere to go but up.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she said, dipping a fry in ketchup. 

Y/N stared at them both. “And if he says no?”

Ava shrugged. “Then he says no. It’s not a Greek tragedy. It’s just a guy.”

Clara leaned back in the booth and looked at her like she was tired of being gentle. “Y/N, come on. You’ve been tap-dancing around your feelings for a month. You clearly like him. And he liked you too—until you made him feel like he was some shiny toy with a good voice and nothing else.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Y/N muttered.

“No one ever does,” Clara said. “That’s why it sucks.”

They were quiet for a second, the music from the bar pulsing low around them. Someone at the next table was aggressively describing a break-up in full detail.

Then Ava leaned in, her tone softer this time. “Okay, listen. You made a dumb comment. It happens. You’re not a monster. You’re not doomed. But if you keep sitting in this guilt spiral like it’s a beanbag chair you refuse to get out of, you’re gonna waste something that could’ve actually been good.”

“I don’t even know what it was,” Y/N whispered. “I just knew it felt… different.”

“Then tell him that,” Clara said, matter-of-fact. “Tell him you said something dumb. Tell him it came out wrong. Tell him he matters to you—even if it’s just as a friend, or whatever the hell this is. But don’t just let it fade away because you’re scared of looking messy.”

“I hate looking messy,” Y/N said, frowning.

“I know,” Ava said. “You love the illusion of control. It’s very chic.”

“But—”

“Y/N,” Clara cut in. “No more ‘but.’ Just text him. Don’t plan a speech. Don’t write a script in your Notes app. Just be a human woman who said something weird and wants to make it right.”

Y/N slumped deeper into the booth and sighed dramatically. “God, I hate when you’re both right.”

“Drink up” Ava said, pushing the glass toward her. “And text him before you overthink it so hard your thumbs fall off.”

—

Back in her apartment, the night felt too quiet in that way city nights sometimes do — muffled cars passing outside, the low hum of a neighbor’s TV bleeding through the wall. Y/N stood in the doorway for a second, coat half on, bag sliding off her shoulder, feeling like her body had arrived home before her mind did.

She dropped everything on the floor. Didn’t bother turning on more than one lamp.

Her makeup was smudged, but she didn’t check. Her hair smelled like fried food from the bar, and her socks were damp at the heel. It had started to drizzle halfway through her walk home — of course it had.

She changed into her oldest sweatshirt — the oversized gray one that said “Property of No One” across the front — and sank onto the couch like her bones weighed more than usual.

Her phone was already in her hand. She didn’t remember picking it up.

She stared at Harry’s name.

For a while, she didn’t type anything. She just let the screen glow against her face while her thumb hovered, frozen, like maybe he’d magically know she was thinking about him. Or regretting every sentence she’d said to him all week.

Then, finally, she typed:

hey. i think i owe you a proper apology.

She paused. Watched the cursor blink. That didn’t feel like enough.

i didn’t mean what i said the other day to come out like that.it sounded flippant but it wasn’t. you’re actually…

She stopped. Groaned.

Deleted the whole thing.

Rewrote it:

hey. i’ve been thinking about what i said the other day. and i hate that it might’ve come off the wrong way. i know i made it sound like you get by on charm, but i hope you know i’ve never thought that.

That felt better. Maybe.

Then she deleted half of it again. Too long. Too heavy. Too much.

She let her phone fall to her chest and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack up there she kept meaning to patch. Or maybe it was just a shadow. Either way, she didn’t move.

Eventually, she sat back up and typed:

hey. i feel like i owe you a drink or an actual apology that isn’t in front of ten coworkers. if you’re around next week… maybe we could fix that.

She read it over three times.

Then hit send.

There was no dramatic sigh. No tossing the phone like it burned her. Just a long, slow exhale as she set it down on the coffee table and pulled her knees up to her chest.. She just sat there, heart heavy and fingers twitching, hoping he still saw her the way he used to.

Hoping it wasn’t too late.

—

Y/N woke up before her alarm.

She blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds, not quite ready to face the day but too alert to keep pretending to be asleep. Her mouth tasted like the drink from the night before and her back ached slightly from falling asleep on the couch again, curled into the same throw blanket she always used.

She reached for her phone out of habit, thumbing through the usual—news notifications, a calendar reminder she’d ignore, an unread email from a store she didn’t remember subscribing to.

And then, at the top of her messages:

Harry Styles 1:43 AM

Her thumb paused. She tapped it.

you don’t owe me anything but yeah I’d like that

A second message followed:

next week’s wide open. name a day.

She read it twice. Then again.

No dramatics. No “let’s talk” or “what you said hurt.” Just… neutral. Still, it didn’t feel cold. It felt like he was giving her the option to move things forward without making it a thing.

It was more than she expected. It was… actually kind of perfect.

She sat up, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm, and muttered, “Okay.”

The apartment was too quiet, so she turned on the kettle and stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, scrolling through potential bars nearby. Not anywhere too fancy—that would look like she was trying too hard. Not the dive near work either. She’d run into someone from the office, and the whole point was not to make this a watercooler topic.

She made toast, added too much butter, and leaned her hip against the counter while typing her reply.

how do you feel about tuesday? somewhere low-key. i promise to behave this time.

She stared at the last line for a second. It felt light enough. Honest, but not clingy.

She hit send.

Then she took a bite of her toast, still slightly warm, and set her phone down on the counter without waiting for the little “read” checkmark.

She’d figure out the details later.

But Tuesday? That was something.

—

The weekend came and went, but Harry never really left her mind.

She kept it together. Ran errands. Cleaned her apartment like she was trying to wipe her brain clean, too. Pretended to be annoyed when Clara asked for updates every six hours, and avoided Ava’s “so have you planned your outfit yet” texts entirely.

She didn’t spiral. But she did think about him. Often. And especially when she didn’t want to.

By Monday morning, she’d half convinced herself it was fine. Normal. Just drinks. Just Harry. Nothing to freak out about.

Then she saw him.

—

She was walking toward the kitchen with her mug in hand—already mentally preparing herself for the weak office coffee—when she saw him rounding the corner.

He was wearing one of those outfits that somehow looked unintentional and perfect at the same time: navy trousers, a white t-shirt under a dark cardigan, and a lanyard he never actually needed but wore anyway. Hair slightly messier than usual, eyes sharp but calm.

They locked eyes for a second.

And then he smiled. A real one. Not the tight, clipped one from last week. Not forced, not tense.

Just… easy.

“Morning,” he said, stepping aside so she could pass.

“Morning,” she replied, matching his tone—cool, casual. No big deal.

He held the kitchen door open for her and followed her in. She was painfully aware of the two feet of space between them. Of how normal this was. And how not-normal it felt, knowing tomorrow night they’d be sitting in a bar alone and trying to be honest again.

“How was your weekend?” he asked, pouring himself a coffee.

She shrugged lightly. “Quiet. Tried to do laundry. Failed.”

Harry chuckled. “Strong effort, though.”

“What about you?”

“Visited my mum,” he said, stirring his coffee. “She made me take home leftovers like I hadn’t eaten in three weeks.”

Y/N smiled, distracted for a second by the image of him sitting in a kitchen somewhere warm, fending off Tupperware with a half-hearted protest.

“Big week?” she asked.

He looked at her then—really looked—and said, “Not until tomorrow.”

Her breath caught for just a split second. But she held steady.

“Right,” she said, soft. “Tomorrow.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just gave her the smallest nod, like he was confirming they were still good. Still on the same page.

And then he left the room. It made her stomach flip a little. Not in a bad way. Just in the okay-so-this-is-really-happening kind of way.

—

The next day, she found herself in front of her closet at 5:40 p.m., half-dressed and whispering curses under her breath. Nothing looked right. Everything felt too try-hard or not enough. She wasn’t trying to impress him, but she didn’t want to look like she’d come straight from work either.

Eventually, she landed on a black knit top, a leather jacket, and the jeans that actually fit her the way she liked. Comfortable. Sharp enough to feel put together, soft enough to feel like herself.

She didn’t overthink it.

Well—she did. But she still left the apartment on time.

—

Tuesday, 7:06 p.m.

Y/N got there first.

She always did, mostly because it gave her control. Over the setting, the nerves, the awkward hello. She chose a small table in the back near the window—far enough from the bar to hear each other, close enough to the door that she didn’t have to pretend she was doing something else while she waited.

Her phone stayed face-down on the table. Her drink—gin and tonic, no frills—sat half-finished when he walked in.

She looked up and felt that little jolt. The one that had started happening more often lately.

Harry had on a dark sweater, black coat draped over one arm, and that same kind of quiet confidence he wore so naturally, like he wasn’t trying at all. His hair looked freshly pushed back, a little messy at the ends, and the gold chain at his neck caught the warm bar lighting just enough to be annoying.

He spotted her immediately.

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Hey.” She mirrored the smile, unsure what to do with her hands, so she adjusted her sleeves unnecessarily. “You found it okay?”

“Did a loop around the block like an idiot first, but yeah.”

There was a beat of quiet while he looked over the menu. She studied his face briefly while he wasn’t looking—he looked a little tired, but relaxed. Comfortable.

A server came by and he ordered a whisky neat. Simple.

“So,” he said once they were alone again, resting his forearms on the table. “No work talk, right?”

“Right. Fully banned.”

“Can I at least ask how your day was?”

She grinned. “Only if you want a very detailed play-by-play about me arguing with a printer.”

“Tempting.”

Conversation started slow—small things. What she was reading lately. A movie he watched twice in one weekend out of boredom. It wasn’t tense, but there was still a strange politeness between them. Like neither of them knew how far they could lean in just yet.

Eventually, she took a sip of her drink and leaned back, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Okay,” she said. “Let me just get this part out of the way.”

Harry tilted his head. “The part where you apologize?”

She made a face. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly. “Go on then.”

She smiled despite herself. “I really am sorry for what I said last week. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said, not looking away.

“It was a dumb thing to say.”

“You’ve said worse.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Have I?”

He shrugged, his mouth twitching. “You once called me ‘a walking Pinterest board for rich introverts.’”

She burst out laughing. “That was objectively accurate.”

“Still hurtful,” he said, mock serious.

“I thought you liked being called mysterious.”

“I like being called brilliant,” he replied, grinning now. “Or at the very least, devastatingly handsome.”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, shaking her head. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That thing you do. Where you say something cocky but somehow get away with it because your delivery is so smooth.”

“Is it working now?”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “A little.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “That’s good. Because I was actually kind of nervous about tonight.”

“You were?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Didn’t know if this would be weird. Or if you’d show up just to cross it off your list of regrets.”

She paused. “I thought you might not show.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I don’t know. You were… different last week.”

“You made a weird comment. I sulked about it. Then you texted me, and I realized I’d rather have one awkward drink with you than spend another week pretending like I don’t miss our conversations.”

Her heart skipped. Just once, but enough to notice.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Well. I missed them too.”

He smiled again—softer this time. “Good. Let’s not mess it up again.”

“No promises.”

He lifted his glass. “To a fresh start?”

She clinked hers against his. “To pretending we’re not both weird about feelings.”

He laughed into his drink.

And just like that, the tension finally cracked—melted under the ease they used to have, the banter slipping back into place like it had just been waiting for one of them to say the right thing.

—

The change didn’t happen all at once.

There was no grand declaration, no dramatic pause in the hallway while someone said I think I like you. It was slower than that—quieter. But it was real. And Y/N felt it.

Especially at work.

The morning after their not-date date, Harry walked into the office with two coffees in hand—hers already made exactly how she liked it—and dropped it on her desk without a word. Just a smirk. She looked up at him, slightly suspicious.

“Is this a peace offering or a bribe?”

He leaned against her desk, took a sip of his own coffee. “Neither. Just wanted to give you something that wouldn’t get me in trouble with HR.”

She laughed, cheeks warming. “Well. Thank you. I’ll only report you if it’s decaf.”

That became the pattern.

Little things. A muffin on her chair. A sticky note doodle left on his monitor. Her pulling his headphones off without warning, only to find him already smiling like he knew she was going to.

At meetings, he sat next to her every time. Sometimes too close. Once, she caught his foot nudging hers under the conference table. She glared at him. He winked.

They weren’t trying to hide it exactly. But they weren’t announcing anything either. Mostly because they didn’t know what this was. Not yet. But it felt like something.

And outside the office? That was changing too.

They texted now. All the time.

It started with casual stuff—TikToks, screenshots of unhinged client emails, memes with captions like you this morning in the kitchen. But then it shifted.

Late night: HARRY: still awake? Y/N: debating if eating cereal at 1am makes me a genius or a gremlin HARRY: i vote genius Y/N: you would. you love chaos disguised as charm. HARRY: that feels like a compliment Y/N: ...it wasn’t HARRY: still taking it

And then there were the lunches.

The first one was spontaneous—she’d had a horrible morning, and Harry had caught her glaring at her screen like it had personally betrayed her. Without a word, he grabbed her coat and said, “Come on. We’re getting real food.”

Now it was routine.

Sometimes they went to the café two blocks down where the barista knew their names. Other days, they grabbed takeout and ate it on a bench outside, their knees bumping lightly as they unwrapped sandwiches and talked about everything except work.

He asked questions—real ones. Not just polite filler. Stuff like what kind of kid were you?, what scares you the most but also secretly thrills you?, have you ever been in love?She dodged that last one.

But she asked things back. She wanted to know the small stuff. What his sister was like. Why he always smelled like cedar and oranges. How he got into this industry at all.

And now, they had another date planned.

Set for Friday.

Not just drinks. Dinner this time. Somewhere cozy, tucked away in the West Village, with low lights and too many candles.

He’d picked it. Told her it was “low-pressure.” Then followed it up with: but i might wear a proper shirt, just in case you bring up my tragic introvert wardrobe again.

She was nervous. But not in a bad way. In a something’s unfolding and I don’t want to mess it up kind of way.

At the office on Thursday afternoon, she caught him looking at her from across the room during a meeting. Not intense. Not dramatic. Just... there. Quietly steady.

And when the meeting ended and people began to file out, he stayed behind.

Walked up to her. Close enough to make her heart tick a little faster.

“Tomorrow,” he said, low and easy.

She raised a brow. “Still on?”

He tilted his head, smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

—

The place he picked was small, tucked into a quiet West Village block, glowing with warm light through the windows and smelling faintly of rosemary and wine. It felt relaxed, cozy. The kind of restaurant that didn’t need to be loud to be cool.

Y/N spotted him at a corner table near the back, nursing a drink and scrolling his phone. He looked comfortable there, legs stretched a little too far under the table, one hand resting on the rim of his glass.

He looked up before she could say anything. His smile appeared instantly—soft, a little crooked, and warm enough to make her stomach flip.

“Hey,” he said, standing as she reached the table. “You made it.”

“You sound surprised.”

He shrugged. “I was half-convinced you’d flake just to maintain the mystery.”

“I’m not that unpredictable,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Mm. Jury’s out.”

There was a moment where his eyes lingered—not in a heavy way, but in a way that made it very obvious he noticed what she was wearing. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

The waiter came and went. He let her choose the wine, teasing her about pretending to read the menu like she wasn’t going to pick based on the vibe of the label.

Conversation flowed easily—Harry had a way of keeping things light without letting them turn shallow. He asked about her week. She asked if he’d ever gotten around to fixing the broken drawer in his kitchen he’d been complaining about. He hadn’t.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and the plate of shared pasta, something shifted.

He leaned in a little closer when she spoke. Not dramatically—just enough to make it feel like her words were meant only for him. When she reached across the table to grab the salt, he didn’t pull his hand away right away when their fingers brushed.

And once—just once—he let his hand rest on the side of the table, close enough that her knee grazed it.

If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

If she moved her leg slightly closer… well, he didn’t move his hand either.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said after a beat.

She looked up at him, surprised. “Am I?”

“A little. Thought maybe you were nervous.”

She smiled into her glass. “Why would I be nervous?”

He shrugged, mouth curving. “Because I’m very charming and slightly annoying. That combination tends to throw people off.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re more subtle than that.”

“I can be,” he said, tone a little lower now. “Sometimes.”

The air went still for a second, like the moment hovered somewhere between teasing and something else. But then the waiter returned with the check, and Harry leaned back again, letting the tension settle without pushing it.

When they left the restaurant, it was still early enough that the city wasn’t completely quiet. The streets were lit up, but calm. She walked beside him, hands in her pockets.

He didn’t grab her hand. He didn’t pull her close.

But his shoulder bumped hers once, gently. Then again, intentionally.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he said after a while, voice quiet now.

“You’re welcome.”

They stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. He turned slightly toward her, looking at her fully now. His eyes were soft, but direct.

“I like this,” he said. “You and me, like this.”

Y/N felt something warm creep up her neck, but she didn’t look away. “I like it too.”

They stood there for a second too long.

Then he smiled again—smaller this time—and nodded toward the direction of the subway. “Can I walk you to the station?”

“You’re not trying to get me to come home with you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of man do you take me for?”

“The kind who flirts with his coworker for a month and finally asks her out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he said, gently bumping her arm with his, “I was professionally respectful for a solid three weeks.”

“Impressive,” she teased.

“I thought so.”

And as they kept walking, their arms brushed again. Neither of them moved.

—

Group Chat: “Chaos Committee 💅🔥🍷”

Clara: Sooo How’d it go last night?

Ava: Yeah don’t make us guess We were very respectfully trying not to text you during the entire dinner window 🙃

Y/N: Appreciate the restraint Also: it was nice Really nice, actually

Clara: Ugh You’re being vague You like him

Y/N: I do. I’m trying not to be annoying about it But yeah

Ava: Okay but give us something What was the vibe? Better than the first one?

Y/N: Yeah Way less awkward He was calm, funny, kind of... quiet but not in a bad way And he looked really good Wore that green shirt again

Clara: Oh. The shirt. The rolled sleeves shirt

Y/N: Yup Forearms out Rings on And the waiter definitely thought we were already together

Ava: As they should

Y/N: He was kind of extra warm last night Little touches here and there Like when I reached for my glass and his hand brushed mine Or how our knees kept bumping under the table and he didn’t move

Clara: So the tension was doing push-ups under the table Got it

Y/N: Basically He said “I like this. You and me, like this” Then immediately acted like he hadn’t just said something that made my brain stop functioning

Ava: That man is running a very calculated long game Respect

Clara: So… what happened after dinner?

Y/N: He walked me to the train Talked the whole way Lightly roasted my Spotify taste Then gave me this soft smile and told me to text when I got home

Clara: ...that’s it?

Y/N: Yup No kiss No lingering hand on the small of my back Just a really warm goodbye and the sense that he’s waiting for something

Ava: Waiting for you to make the next move maybe?

Y/N: I don’t know He’s so good at walking right up to the line and stopping Like he wants me to notice it but doesn’t want to cross it without me saying yes

Clara: Honestly I hate how respectful that is

Y/N: I know It’s actually making me lose my mind

Ava: Okay but you’re into it

Y/N: ...I’m very into it

Clara: So what now?

Y/N: I see him Monday And I’m pretending like it’s just another normal day And not like I’ve been thinking about his hand brushing my knee for 12 straight hours

Ava: Good plan That always works out great for people

Y/N: Shut up

—

Monday – Office, 10:42 a.m.

Work was work.

Emails. Edits. Slack notifications that piled up faster than she could read them. But Y/N couldn’t focus for more than fifteen minutes at a time without remembering the way Harry had looked at her Friday night. Or how he hadn’t kissed her. Or how she kind of loved that he hadn’t.

She was scrolling through a doc when she sensed him before she saw him—there was always something in the air when he walked by her desk, like her body clock recalibrated itself.

“Morning,” he said casually, appearing next to her chair with a cup of coffee and that effortlessly smug smile.

“Is this for me?” she asked, accepting it anyway.

“I figured you needed it,” he said, then leaned down slightly to whisper, “You were frowning at your screen like it owed you money.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling already. “Thanks.”

He didn’t leave right away. Just hovered at the edge of her desk for a few seconds, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to read something there.

“You want to eat together later?” he asked.

“Sure” she said “Meet you at the elevator later?”

“Sounds like a plan”.

—

Monday – Lunch Break

“Are you gonna judge me if I order two things off the specials menu?” Y/N asked, squinting at the little chalkboard propped up at the edge of their table.

Harry leaned back in his chair, half-smiling. “I’d only judge if you didn’t. What kind of monster comes to a place that smells like heaven and doesn’t over-order?”

She grinned, setting the menu down. “Alright, good. Just wanted to make sure we’re both mentally prepared for me to have a post-lunch food coma at my desk.”

“Can’t wait to watch you pretend to be productive while slowly falling asleep mid-email,” he said, stretching his legs out under the table until they accidentally brushed hers.

Neither of them moved.

They were tucked into a small two-person table by the window of the Italian place Harry had suggested—a quiet spot with sun spilling through the glass and just enough hum from other tables to feel private. The food smelled ridiculous. Garlic, butter, rosemary… 

When the waiter left with their orders, Harry glanced at her across the table. “You always get that serious when you read menus?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a high-stakes decision. This is lunch. I have to live with it for the rest of the afternoon.”

“That’s true. It does define your mood for at least three hours.”

“Exactly.”

“I respect that.”

She sipped her water and watched him tilt his head slightly, like he was studying her. “What?” she asked.

He smiled. “Nothing. I just like seeing you outside the office.”

She blinked. “We text constantly.”

“Yeah, but that’s different. In person you make these little faces when you’re thinking—like right now, you’re trying not to smile.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, failing miserably to hide it. “I hate that you notice stuff like that.”

“I’m very observant.”

“You’re very smug.”

He raised his glass to her. “Also true.”

The food arrived a few minutes later—her pasta, his risotto—and they both took their first bites at the same time. Harry made a soft sound, not dramatic, just satisfied.

“Okay, that’s a throwback,” he said, sitting back a little.

“What is?”

He gestured toward his plate. “Risotto. My mum used to make it almost exactly like this. Creamy, garlicky, winey. I haven’t had it like this in years.”

Y/N raised her brows. “What happened, did she stop loving you?”

Harry smiled. “No. I just haven’t had anyone make it since I moved out. It's not exactly the kind of dish people whip up on a whim.”

“I do.”

“You make risotto?”

“Mushroom risotto. With wine. Sometimes thyme, if I’m feeling fancy.”

He stared at her, amused. “That’s dangerously specific.”

She shrugged. “It’s one of my go-to ‘I swear I’m a real adult’ meals. Feels impressive but it’s mostly just stirring and committing to the bit.”

Harry looked at her, eyes narrowed slightly like he was considering something. Then he said, slowly, “So when are you making it for me?”

Y/N blinked once. Twice. Then gave a small smirk. “Wow. Not even a subtle lead-in. You just jumped right to the invite.”

“Gotta keep up with you somehow,” he said, smiling easily now. “I’m not above being fed.”

She paused, then: “Friday?”

His expression softened, surprised but not caught off guard. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

Y/N raised her brows as she twirled a bite of pasta. “No allergies? No weird food trauma I should know about before I commit to this dinner plan?”

Harry laughed, sitting back in his chair. “None. I eat everything. Except olives.”

She gasped. “What? Olives are elite.”

“They taste like brine and betrayal.”

“I’m still putting them in the salad,” she said. “You’ll deal.”

He pointed his fork at her. “You say that now, but you’re gonna be weirdly invested in whether I like it or not. I can already tell.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “I just don’t want to waste my good cooking on someone with broken taste buds.”

“Then you’ll have to find out if it’s worth the risk,” he said, voice low but playful, like there was a dare tucked into the words.

Her eyes held his for a beat too long. She looked away first—barely.

They both went back to eating, but the quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It was charged in that new way. Comfortable, but close to something else. Their legs brushed again under the table. Neither of them moved.

He went quiet for a beat, watching her as she gathered the last of her pasta onto her fork.

“I’m excited for Friday,” he said, almost offhand, but his eyes were too steady for it to be casual.

She looked up. “Who said it was a date?”

Harry smirked, didn’t miss a beat. “Me. I did. Mentally. While you were talking about thyme like it’s a love language.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard—and laughed. “Wow.”

“I stand by it,” he added, casually wiping his hand on a napkin. “You invite me over, cook for me, maybe pour me a glass of wine… that’s textbook date behavior. Page one.”

She tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. “What if I burn it?”

“Then we order takeout,” he said, standing, grabbing both their receipts. “And it’s still a date. Just one with a fun plot twist.”

Y/N rolled her eyes as she followed him toward the door. “You’re annoyingly sure of yourself.”

Harry glanced back at her, holding the door open. “No,” he said, voice low but smiling. “I’m just sure about you.”

She froze for half a second. Then stepped past him, heat blooming in her chest and creeping up her neck.

He walked beside her all the way back to the office, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just said something that would replay in her head for the next four days straight.

They stepped into the elevator together. Just the two of them.

It was quiet inside—soft hum of motion, the faintest trace of cologne in the air. Y/N stood beside him, arms folded, eyes on the glowing numbers overhead like she hadn’t just invited him over for a dinner she now absolutely could not mess up.

Harry, on the other hand, was perfectly relaxed. Leaned casually against the wall, side-glancing at her with a look she pretended not to notice.

“Friday,” he said softly, not looking away.

“Seven,” she replied.

“I’ll bring the wine.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s your only job.”

He tilted his head. “And yours?”

She raised a brow. “Cooking. Obviously.”

He smirked, slow. “No. I mean your real job.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s my ‘real’ job?”

Harry let the pause stretch just enough to feel it. Then said, low and playful, “Try not to make me fall for you over risotto.”

Her stomach dipped. Hard.

She opened her mouth—maybe to reply, maybe to deflect—but the elevator dinged before she could say a word.

He stepped out first, like he hadn’t just dropped that and walked away.

And she followed, entirely aware she was already failing at that job.

—

7:03 p.m.

Y/N wasn’t nervous.

That’s what she told herself as she adjusted the straps of her top for the third time, checked the risotto on the stove for the fifth, and glanced at her phone for no real reason at all.

She wasn’t nervous. She was… anticipatory. Which was worse.

The apartment smelled like sautéed garlic, wine, and rosemary. Her playlist was low, something warm and rhythmic playing in the background. She’d cleaned. Lit two candles—not too many. She was wearing jeans and a simple black tank top that looked casual from far away but a little dangerous up close.

At exactly 7:06, there was a knock.

She wiped her palms on her thighs, walked to the door, and opened it—

—and forgot how to speak for a second.

Harry stood in the hallway, wine bottle in hand, coat open over a navy button-down that was just fitted enough to hint at the lines underneath. Sleeves rolled once, casually. Hair pushed back. Rings on. Slight scruff on his jaw like he hadn’t bothered shaving for the occasion, and it somehow made him look better.

“Hey,” he said, smile already tugging at his mouth. His voice low and smooth and a little too warm.

Y/N opened the door wider, trying to look unaffected. “You’re late.”

“By three minutes,” he said, stepping in. “You gonna punish me for it?”

She turned to walk back to the kitchen before he could see her smile. “Don’t tempt me.”

Harry’s eyes followed her. “Already am.”

She ignored that. Barely. “Wine goes on the counter. Glasses are in the cabinet to your left.”

He slipped off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, the motion unhurried. His sleeves shifted higher, showing the veins along his forearms, and it was ridiculous how aware she was of every single movement he made. Like her whole body had decided to tune into just him.

He found the glasses without asking, poured two, and brought hers over like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Smells incredible,” he said, glancing at the pot on the stove. “Didn’t realize this would be a full sensory experience.”

She took the glass from him, their fingers brushing. “Didn’t realize you’d show up looking like you belong in a perfume ad.”

He tilted his head. “Is that a compliment or a threat?”

“A little of both.”

He leaned against the counter, swirling his wine lazily. “You’re already nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell.”

She sipped her wine. “You’re very confident for someone about to eat food I made unsupervised.”

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he said, smile curling slowly. “But I’m also a risk-taker.”

“Really?” she asked, stepping just a little closer. “What kind of risks are we talking?”

Harry’s gaze dropped, briefly, to her mouth. “Ones that involve very pretty women in tank tops inviting me over and pretending it’s all casual.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered.

But she covered it with a dry, “You’re awfully chatty for someone who’s supposed to be quietly impressed.”

“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” he murmured, leaning in like he might say something else.

But he didn’t. He just reached around her—close enough to brush his chest against her shoulder—and stirred the risotto with one of the wooden spoons she’d left on the counter.

She didn’t move.

“You’re doing it right,” he said, still low, still close. “Good technique.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“I can tell.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to feel the space between them shrink.

Then he looked at her, and his voice dipped just slightly, deliberate now:

“You know this is a date, right?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It is. And you’re doing dangerously well.”

Her throat went dry.

The spoon was still in his hand. The risotto still simmering. But everything between them had gone still—warm, weighted, suspended between polite flirtation and whatever the hell this was becoming.

“I haven’t even served it yet,” she said quietly.

Harry’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve already got me.”

Y/N held his gaze for a second too long, heat blooming low in her stomach. But she didn’t let it tip yet. She reached out and gently took the spoon from his hand, turning her focus back to the risotto.

“You’re lucky I like feeding people,” she said, stirring.

“Lucky’s one word for it.”

“You’re also distracting.”

“Also one word for it.”

He sat at the kitchen table while she plated the food, watching her with that unshakable calm, fingers tapping against the stem of his wine glass. When she finally set a bowl in front of him, he looked up and said, very simply:

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve tried it.”

He took one bite, then another—no dramatic noises this time, just that slow nod of approval, the kind that made her chest tighten.

“I hate how good this is,” he said through a smile. “Now I can’t even fake critique you.”

“You weren’t going to anyway.”

“I was, just to keep you humble.”

She grinned, settling across from him, and they ate in a rhythm that felt natural. Familiar. They didn’t fill every silence. They didn’t rush the conversation. He asked how she got into cooking. She asked what kind of kid he was at school. He told her he was quiet. Kind of nerdy. Read more than he talked.

“But you’re so…” she paused, waving her fork at him, “you now.”

Harry smiled. “Still kind of nerdy. Just taller.”

They finished eating slowly, in no real rush. Conversation drifted, low and lazy. Harry told a story about getting lost on the Tube as a teenager and ending up an hour outside of London. She admitted she once cried in a grocery store because she couldn't find the right brand of olive oil.

When the food was gone and only half the wine left, Y/N stood with a stretch and started clearing plates.

“You cooked,” Harry said, getting up beside her. “Let me clean.”

“You can help,” she said, stacking dishes. “But don’t think you’re getting full dish duty just because I made risotto.”

“Worth a try,” he murmured, brushing against her as he took the plates to the sink.

The touch lingered—his hand grazing her hip on the way past. Not overt. Not rushed. But purposeful.

She handed him a glass, and their fingers met again. This time neither of them looked away.

“You’re quiet,” she said, filling the silence with something safe.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “I’m trying not to say something reckless.”

Her heart fluttered. “Like what?”

“Like how long I’ve been thinking about this. About you.” He turned slightly, drying a plate without breaking eye contact. “Since the first time I saw you that day in the office. You walked in like you belonged there. That little nervous smile. I was done for.”

She didn’t move, just held his gaze. “That’s not reckless.”

“It is if I tell you I wanted to kiss you before I knew your last name.”

Y/N blinked slowly.

Then she set the towel down, stepped closer, and looked up at him.

“You’re really going for it tonight.”

Harry’s smile was slow and sure. “Trying to make up for lost time.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she kissed him.

Soft at first, but immediate. Like they’d both been holding it back all night and finally decided to stop pretending. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, while his other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against him.

She sighed against his mouth as his tongue brushed hers—slow and unhurried but thorough, like he meant every second of it. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

When they finally pulled apart, just slightly, she caught her breath and whispered, “We should take this to the bedroom.”

He blinked, lips parted, eyes dark.

“Yeah?” he said, low and rough now.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t ask twice. He just followed.

And the second they stepped into her room, everything changed.

—

The door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet deepened. The only light came from the hallway and the faint glow of the city through her windows. Harry stood there for a second, eyes on her like she’d just undone something in him.

Then he crossed the room and kissed her again—deeper now, slower, like they finally had permission to feel everything.

She let her hands roam, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips skimming over warm skin and firm muscle. He hissed softly through his teeth when she tugged the shirt over his head, dropping it somewhere behind them.

“God, you’re…” she breathed, letting her gaze fall over him, eyes hungry and soft all at once.

“Say it,” he murmured, thumb brushing her lower lip.

“You know exactly what I was going to say.”

He smirked. “I like hearing it anyway.”

She kissed down his neck, tongue brushing the curve where his shoulder met his collarbone, and smiled when she felt him shiver under her mouth.

He didn’t just touch her—he held her, his hands sliding over her back, her sides, her hips, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted her most. His fingers dipped under her waistband, pausing, waiting for her nod before easing her jeans down slowly.

Once she stepped out of them, she stood there in nothing but her tank top and underwear, heart pounding.

Harry looked at her like she was already undoing him.

“You’re dangerous,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, stepping closer, brushing his mouth over her jaw, “and now that I have it, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Then don’t,” she whispered.

He lifted her gently—just enough to lay her back on the bed—and followed, crawling over her with slow purpose. Her tank top came off next, tossed somewhere beside them, and when he looked down at her, he stilled.

His hands traced her bare skin like it was something delicate. Not hesitating—just taking his time.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice rough and low.

She nodded, eyes locked on his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again, mouth moving over hers with quiet intensity, hips pressing against hers as his hand slid between her thighs, not rushed, just there, warm and solid and deliberate.

Every touch was a question, and every breath she gave him was an answer.

By the time he eased her back into the pillows, lips brushing her throat, her shoulder, her chest, she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. His name slipped out of her in a whisper, soft and urgent, as his mouth trailed lower—lips against her skin, tongue slow and teasing, every movement sending sparks through her like aftershocks.

He moved with patience. With purpose. With a kind of reverence she hadn’t expected, but felt all the way down to her ribs.

And when he finally pulled her into his arms afterward—bodies warm, tangled, skin still humming—he didn’t say anything right away.

Just ran his fingers up and down her spine, slow and steady, anchoring them both in the quiet.

Then, almost too softly to hear:

“I’m really not going to be able to stop thinking about you now.”

Y/N smiled into his chest.

“Good,” she whispered. “That makes two of us.”

—

​​The first thing Y/N noticed was warmth.

Not sunlight, not sound—just heat, steady and solid behind her, an arm draped heavy across her waist and breath moving slowly against the back of her neck.

She blinked her eyes open. Her bedroom was quiet, soft light filtering through the curtains. Everything smelled like skin and her lavender laundry soap and something distinctly him.

She shifted slightly and felt him move behind her—just the barest reaction, like his body didn’t want to lose the contact.

Then came the voice, low and sleep-rough.

“Morning.”

She smiled before turning. “Morning.”

Harry was already watching her, eyes soft, hair a total mess, the faintest smirk on his lips like he couldn’t believe this was real. He brushed a hand over her shoulder gently, fingers trailing up to her jaw like he needed to confirm she was still there.

“Didn’t dream that, did I?” he asked, voice still scratchy.

She shook her head. “You were definitely here. There was risotto. There was wine. There was…”

“A lot of things,” he offered, still grinning.

Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t look away. “You stayed.”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

They lay there for a moment, quiet again. His thumb moved lazily over her hip under the covers. She could feel the way his legs tangled with hers, warm skin brushing everywhere.

She wanted to ask what this meant. If they were different now. If they were going to try to pretend it hadn’t happened at work on Monday morning—but then he leaned in and kissed her forehead, soft and slow, and said:

“You know I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen, right?”

Her eyes met his.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” she said.

That was it.

Not a relationship talk. Not labels. Just honesty.

Just this.

“Good,” he whispered, voice still sleep-warm. “Because I was already planning breakfast.”

She laughed. “You’re confident.”

He rolled onto his back dramatically. “I just gave the performance of my life and made sure you didn’t burn the risotto. Let me have my moment.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And charming.”

She leaned over him and kissed him again. It was slow, languid. The kind of kiss that didn’t go anywhere, but still promised everything.

Her hand slipped into his hair, and his arm curled back around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest again.

—

They stayed in bed longer than planned.

The risotto dishes were still in the sink. Her hair was a mess. His shirt was missing. They didn’t care.

Harry made coffee while Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his sweaters—something he must’ve tossed into his overnight bag, though she couldn’t remember when. It hung loose on her frame, sleeves too long, fabric soft from wear.

“You can’t just look like that and expect me to focus on pouring,” he muttered as he handed her a mug.

She took it without breaking eye contact. “I like how quickly you folded.”

He sipped his coffee with a lazy smirk. “Folded the moment I walked in your door last night.”

They ate toast over the sink. Talked about absolutely nothing. She told him her neighbor leaves passive-aggressive sticky notes in the laundry room. He told her he once accidentally wore mismatched shoes to a client meeting and no one noticed—still one of his proudest office wins.

And then, too soon, it was time for him to go.

He stood by the door, keys in one hand, the other still lingering at her hip like he hadn’t decided whether to pull her back in or let her breathe.

“I’ll see you Monday,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

She nodded. “We’ll pretend to be normal.”

He leaned down and kissed her once—soft, careful, like he didn’t want to wake whatever spell they’d slipped into.

But before he pulled away, he whispered, “Just so you know, I’m already thinking about the next time.”

Y/N smiled, her chest tight in that restless, breathless way that meant she already was too.

He left.

The apartment was quieter now. Still warm, still full of him, but quieter.

— 

After he left, the apartment was quiet.

Y/N wandered back to the kitchen, barefoot, still wearing his sweater. She poured herself a second cup of coffee even though it had already gone cold. Leaned against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.

There was a dish towel still hanging crooked off the oven handle. A candle burned too low on the windowsill. A wine glass tipped slightly in the sink.

All signs that last night had really happened.

Her neck was still warm where he’d kissed it. Her body ached in that good, quiet way. And every now and then, her mind would flash to the way he’d looked at her—right before, during, after. Like he knew something she didn’t.

She took a sip of coffee and smiled to herself.

It was funny.

She didn’t think this was how it would go. When she started the job, when she’d met him this wasn’t in the plan.

She didn’t think it would turn into late-night texts. Or pasta. Or him, standing barefoot in her kitchen like he belonged there.

She especially didn’t think it would turn into this quiet kind of happiness. This soft, steady warmth that hadn’t faded even after the door clicked shut behind him.

She shook her head to herself, grinning.

“I really didn’t see that coming,” she murmured into her mug.

But somehow, that made it better.

[naisilla]

Heartsteel x Reader

Heart Stolen.

Content: You make some new online friends

The lobby was empty. Your icon stood alone amongst the five spaces. No one showed up tonight. You sigh, leaving your mouse hovering over the 'find match' button. Was it worth gaming tonight?

You didn't blame the others. Now that high school was over, everyone had begun branching out into their new lives. Some grew further than others. At least everyone kept in touch through Discord. But tonight, only you were online.

It's a shame. You didn't get the privilege of being able to stay up late as frequently as the others because of the work shifts you had. Some days, you have to wake up early in the morning at 5. On others, you finished the closing shift at 9. To get enough sleep, you would have to go to bed before your friends would even get online to game.

The only nights you could indulge yourself were nights before your days off. Three nights a week, you could finally catch up with your friends. If only they were available those nights. Sometimes, they were busy, tired, or "not in the mood." Honestly, it pissed you off.

Looks like it was turning out to be another lonely night, another disappointment. You weren't mad at your friends, but it would be nice to have some company tonight. Your eyes trained onto your monitor. The find match button beckons you.

Finding a match alone was a little intimidating. What if you messed up and made a mistake that cost your team? You were a little sensitive to mean comments. Going competitive where players were toxic didn't seem so alluring anymore.

A defeated sigh escapes your lips. You needed to become emotionally independent. Perhaps a warm up game might calm your nerves. Dragging your mouse, you select draft pick and choose bot lane for your autofill. Finally, you click Find Match.

You wait with bated breath as your client searches for a match. With each passing second, you became increasingly regretful of your decision. You should've just given up on gaming and gone with binge watching something.

The client suddenly displays the message "Match Found!" and you get grouped with four strangers onto a team. You're assigned bot lane, and you go to select your ADC. After clicking on "Daughter of the void." you pause. Another player had also selected an ADC champion.

You hiss under your breath. "Shit." this was awkward. One of you needed to go support, but this other player had already chosen "The Weapon of the Faithful." You squint, taking a look at their username, 신자의 무기.

Korean? On an Oceania server? How strange. A message pops up in the lobbies chat window. EZ: uh oh EZ: glwt

Sighing, you force yourself to scan through the available supports, both in your inventory and free rotation. "Maven of the strings" had a simple kit right? Honestly, you weren't sure but the countdown was ticking and you needed to pick something.

Perhaps you could dodge? You wouldn't mind waiting in queue with low priority. You frown as a spike of determination hits you. No way you were backing out, you were assigned bot. This other player was given support, it should be them dealing with this.

10 seconds left

Ugh how serious was this matchup anyways?

5 seconds left

Screw it you're dodging this.

Your mouse clicks on the exit button and you breathe a sigh of relief as your client continued to search for another match. A blue light reflects in your eye as another 'match found' widget pops up on your client and you readily accept it.

What the fuck!?

To your disbelief you get thrown into another lobby matchup with 신자의 무기 and EZ.

EZ: no way...

You groan and rub your temple before leaning forward in your seat and typing into the chat:

(Y/U/N): Hey, do you want to go ADC or SUPP?

Your eyes remain fixated as they await a response...

A little blip appears on your screen, drawing your attention to the friend request from 신자의 무기. You frown, you don't typically accept friend requests from anyone you don't personally know. But it wouldn't hurt to select 'accept' if it doesn't go well you can always block them.

Seconds after accepting the request you receive a message, a discord link.

This isn't a bot is it?

Your monitor switches over to Discord inviting you to join a server "The Boyz". You can feel hesitation in joining the group, the last thing an introvert like you wanted was to listen to another one of those obnoxiously loud and annoying boys that scream on call like a prepubescent loltyler1.

Screw it, you had already gone out of your comfort zone enough might as well continue the streak.

You join the call:

"AYO THEY JOINED!"

The Discord call erupted in a chorus of excited greetings from EZ, his icon almost glowing a constant green from his excited chatter. You were surprised by how charming and friendly his voice sounded, nothing like the usual screamers you're used to on voice chat.

"Hello (Y/U/N)" says 자의 무기, his voice is barely louder than a whisper, yet it still manages to cut through the noise with surprising ease.

"Hey!" You chime back, trying to match their energy.

"Sorry about the misunderstanding with Phel, he's new to League." You tilt your head in interest. Phel? That's an odd name.

"Liar" Phel retorts. "I wasn't paying attention to my role, sorry for stealing your adc."

"Don't worry about it." You reply reassuringly.

"Wanna try again? I can go "The Redeemer" as support."

"Sure let's give it a shot."

And just like that, you were now playing with two new friends. It didn't take long for you to find two extra random players to join your team in lobby and this time there was no drama in champ select.

The match starts spawing your and your teammates on the blue side, you and phel guide your champions to follow your jungler to leash at the red buff. While you wait at camp for the brambleback to spawn you decide to try and get to know these two.

"So is Phel short for something? I've never heard a name like that before."

"Oh uh yeh, My actual name is Aphelios."

You raise a brow intrigued. "Where does that originate from?"

"I believe it's Greek, roughly translates to: far from the sun"

"Oh? Are you Greek?"

You can hear Ez snort. "He most definitely isn't"

"I'm Korean actually."

"Ah I see, I didn't want to assume from your username."

Aphelios laughs, his voice so soft and delicate.

The red brambleback crawls out of the ground and you jump straight into lowering it's hp with your auto attacks and Q, Letting your jungler finish it off before moving onto the krugs.

"I also have a very interesting name too" Ez chimes in, his voice slightly whining at the end. A chuckle escapes your mouth.

"My bad, what's your name then Ez?" You ask, voluntarily taking the bait as you and Aphelios walk to the middle of bot lane.

You can feel Ez smirking over the voice call his voice reverberates in your headset. "It's Jarro" His voice goes on a tangent explaining the origin of his name while you focus on your bot lane as you come across the enemy team. "The Sheriff of Piltover" and an "Empress of the elements"

"The plauge rat" suddenly appears in front of you, landing two auto's as you back away sending your Q missiles at him. Damn they ganking this early?

You fall back, trading attacks with the enemy adc as the red minions crash your wave, heading towards your first turret. Jarro is still rambling on.

"So what's your name?" Jarro asks, his voice finally breaking into your focus.

"I'm (Y/N)."

Jarro let's out an "ahh" in response, his tone warm and friendly. "What does that mean?"

You shrug even though no one can actually see you. "I don't know it's just my name." you say, your eyes darting from the screen to the vc every now and then.

"I think you have a nice name." Aphelios says, he had been quiet up till this point, also focusing on your lane as you traded with the enemy laners together. There's a soothing quality to his soft-spoken voice. Despite his shyness, he felt compelled to compliment you on your name.

"Thanks but I really can't be compared to a name like yours, you sound like you're a fantasy character."

a hint of embarrassment in his voice. He didn't see himself as a fantasy character, and he was never comfortable with accepting compliments.

"My name is nice too right Phel?" Jarro's voice chimes in cheekily fishing for compliments.

Aphelios lets out a soft sigh and rolls his eyes at Jarro's question. He knows he is only looking for compliments, but it's all in good fun.

"Yes, Jarro, yours is nice too." He says with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Aphelios glances at your profile on his screen and his expression softens.

The next few minutes are solely focused on your laning. You play your champion passively using your ranged W to your advantage while your health is low as you focus on poking the enemies from a safe distance while farming.

Shortly after, your jungler comes down from jungle and you aggressively go in to chase down the support who tries to run back to their turret. The enemy adc is slain by your jungler, leaving it just between you and the empress. You ignore your low health and follow them as she runs, she casts ignite but with a single W you take the kill then quickly recall in a bush.

"That was close, good job (Y/N)" Aphelios says, you smile.

"Thanks."

You notice the dragon is up and your jungler is pinging it, you cancel your recall and quickly take care of it before the enemy laners can get there. You run around the dragon camp picking up the honey fruit as the three of you go to recall in the bush behind dragon.

The enemy adc appears in your vision, walking towards your bush where the three of you hide, poor thing walked right into her death. You can hear a "pfft" pick up on Aphelios mic as you finally recall to base.

The game continues as you return back to farming minions and trading with the enemy bot laners, Aphelios manages to take out the adc forcing the support to go into a bush and recall before he can chase her down. You make sure to place a vision ward at the bottom of the river to keep an eye out for enemy ganks while Aphelios goes to the top to place another.

The support returns and begins to attack you and boy does she hurt, you fall back as your health bar is hacked at. Lucky Aphelios returns to bot to heal you and you both go back to pressing on as the jungler chases the enemy midlaner nearby, killing her. The three of you easily over powering the other two as the adc dies and the support retreats leaving their turret vunrable.

You enter the mid game phase and things are going good, none of your turrets have been taken down yet. You did die shortly after taking their turret but you were quick to bounce back. There was a comfortable silence in the chat when suddenly you hear someone humming.

Surprisingly Aphelios starts humming, not just generically either, whatever tune is in his head is a beautiful melody. His voice was so smooth and delicate, the way it danced along the notes in perfect rhythm, it was enchanting.

You feel nervous bringing it up but eventually, your thoughts escape through your lips. "Wow, your singing voice is so beautiful Phel."

Aphelios' humming stops abruptly, clearing his throat. "Sorry, I thought I muted my headset."

"What are you apologizing for? You have a great voice my guy" Jarro voice says.

You nod from behind your screen looking back to Aphelios' icon. "He's right you genuinely sound good". You say encouragingly.

"Yeh and I know a thing or two about singing." Jarro chimes.

"Oh really pretty boy? You wanna show us what you've got?" Aphelios asks chuckling.

"Nah I wouldn't want to overshadow your spotlight"

You snort rolling your eyes. Focusing hard as you take down another enemy turret.

And so began your new friendship circle with the boys, after a successful league game you would start another, then another. Talking and gaming late into the night.

You were breathless from singing along with the others quite horribly to their request. At least Jarro was also terrible but you could tell that he was singing bad on purpose. Aphelios was too busy laughing his mic barely picking up on the noise as he tries to cover his mouth as Jarro continues to sing on.

"DO YOU THINK TIME, WOULD PASS US BY?

'CAUSE YOU KNOW I'D WALK A THOUSAND MILES

IF I COULD SEE YOU TONIGHT BANANANANANANANNAA-" Jarro started to sing the riff in a terrible screech the gain on his mic becoming painful to hear.

Aphelios is practically in tears at this point, his face red from laughing so hard. He covers his mouth with his hand, desperate to hold in his laughter, but it's futile. His shoulders shake from the effort, and his eyes are squeezed shut as he laughs. He is having the time of his life, sharing this moment of laughter with the friends he had quickly grown fond of.

He lets out a gasp, trying to catch his breath between fits of laughter.

"Stop… stop, I… I can't breathe.."

He tries to speak, but he can hardly get the words out through his laughter. His breathing is ragged, but he manages to force out a few more words between giggles.

"You guys are… the worst… singers… I've ever heard.."

Jarro and you let out an obnoxious gasp, mocking offense. "

"Excuse me?! Worst singers?" Jarro exclaims loudly, dramatically placing his hand over his heart.

"I'll have you know we are both phenomenal vocalists." Jarro crosses his arms, lifting his chin up in a fake air of superiority.

Aphelios can't help but laugh harder at Jarros exaggerated reaction. He tries to bite his lip to keep from laughing, but the mirth is too strong and his laughter escapes in a series of short gasps and giggles. He wipes a tear from his eye, his cheeks flushed from the laughter.

"Seriously, you're all terrible… Especially you, Ez…"

He says, shooting an amused grin towards Jarro's avatar.

The days passed and the friendship between you and the boys, Jarro and Aphelios, continued to strengthen with each game. Hours spent gaming, laughing, and creating memories together.

Late-night calls filled with laughter, banter, and the occasional musical performance, became the norm.

Both Jarro and Aphelios found themselves looking forward to the moments they spent gaming with you, considering you a valuable and entertaining member of their gaming circle.

Ez, remains as cheerful and energetic as ever, always ready to make you laugh with his dumb jokes.

Aphelios especially began to open up more and more, sharing bits and pieces of himself with you. You had learned that he was currently stationed in Perth Australia, which surprised you as you yourself were living in Sydney.

Apparently, he and his twin sister were long-term exchange students at one of the local universities...

"Oh cool! What are you studying over there?" You asked your voice sounding enthusiastic.

Aphelios would scratch the back of his neck behind his monitor shyly as he bashfully answered. "Oh, I'm taking the Composition and Music Technology course."

A low whistle picks up from Jarros's mic. "Sheesh Phel I didn't think asian parents let their kids do anything other than be a lawyer or doctor."

Aphelios rolls his eyes at Jarro's comment, scoffing slightly.

"Well, I'm a rare exception to that stereotype I suppose."

He says, a small smile on his lips. Despite his shy exterior, he had a hint of sass when it came to his responses at times.

"My parents are surprisingly supportive of my interests, especially my music. As long as I'm working hard and pursuing something I'm passionate about, they're happy."

Jarro nods along with a chuckle. "Hey don't you live in Aussie too y/n?"

"Yep I'm over a few states though, down in Newcastle."

"Newcastle? Where the hell is that?"

You glare at Jarro's icon. "It's in New South Wales."

"..."

"A few hours above Sydney"

"Ah Sydney! Why didn't you say so!?"

You and Aphelios collectively roll your eyes in unison.

"What about you Jarro? You have an Oceania account so you should be either here or New Zealand?"

Jarro's cheeky chuckle can be heard again in your headset. "Nah I'm over in beautiful Canada."

You can't help but let out a confused sound. "Canada? Sir are you lost? How is your ping not crashing your PC on lol?"

Jarro's chuckle returns, unperturbed. "Well, I figured I'd come over here and show you Aussies how it's really done."

He boasts, his ego as big as ever.

"And let's face it, the competition's just a little easier over here."

He adds, a smirk evident in his voice, and Aphelios rolls his eyes again.

You enjoyed having these online friends, they were almost always available to hang out with after your shifts at the cafe, no matter how exhausting your day was Jarro and Aphelios were always there to help you destress. You were more than grateful for those two.

Aphelios would occasionally share his music projects for his assignments with you on the group server, he was certainly talented at composing pieces. His base work was giving indie, atmospheric, lofi but he would try and experiment with other genres to fit the criteria of the assignment.

"Why don't you try singing over some of these tracks?" You ask after finished listening to another one of his pieces.

Aphelios responds a bit shyly, a hint of self-consciousness in his tone. He's never had much confidence in his singing, even though he loves music.

"I mean… Singing for fun is one thing, but performing in front of a whole class is a lot of pressure. I'm not sure if my voice is good enough for that…"

Jarro chimes in, his tone light and casual, as usual.

"Oh, come on, Phel. Your voice is seriously amazing, you don't give yourself enough credit."

He reassures him, trying to boost his confidence

"You're a talented composer and you've got a killer vocal range. You should definitely try singing for your class, I'm sure they'll love it. Besides, what's the worst that could happen?"

Aphelios lets out a soft sigh, considering Jarro's words. His friend's confidence is endearing.

"I suppose you have a point… But it's still nerve-wracking, you know? What if they don't like it? Or what if I make a mistake?"

You shake your head, quickly disagreeing with him.

"Come on, you're being too hard on yourself Phel. I've heard you sing before, your voice is beautiful. You could easily charm the whole class with those smooth vocals."

You reassure him, genuinely believing in his talent.

Aphelios smiles at your words, his heart feeling a bit lighter. He was grateful to have friends like you and Jarro who believed in him and encouraged him.

"I don't know… I'm just not used to people hearing my voice outside of you guys, you know? It's kind of intimidating…"

He admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Look you don't even have to sing in front of everyone, you can record from the privacy of your home then when you go to present all you have to do is press the play button"

Aphelios slowly nods his head in agreement, considering your suggestion.

"That… That sounds tempting…It would definitely take away the pressure of performing in front of a live audience… That's not a bad idea, actually. I guess that would still count for the assignment…"

He says thoughtfully, his mind running through the idea. Recording from the comfort of his own home does sound less intimidating than having to perform in front of the entire class.

Jarro chimes in again from the other side, his tone cheerful and encouraging.

"That's the spirit, Phel! Record it at home, give it a few final touches, and then just hit play in class. Easy peasy."

He says, seeming to like your suggestion, too.

This is what friends are for right? Supporting each other and encouraging them to reach their full potential? Aphelios could definitely count on you two for that, behind that little discord profile a small smile appeared on his lips, barely illuminated by the glow of his monitor.

And that's how you convinced your online friend to give singing an actual shot. You and Jarro could only laugh and give knowing "I told you so" looks when Aphelios would return the next gaming session flustered by how well his classmates took his singing. He had become a local star in his university overnight.

"I guess singing in front of the class wasn't as terrifying as I thought. They actually seemed to like it… a lot."

He confesses, fiddling with the hem of his shirt as he speaks.

"I don't know what to do, I've never had this much attention before… It's a bit overwhelming…"

Jarro grins, clearly enjoying Aphelios' newfound popularity.

"See, I told you they would love it. You're a natural talent, Phel. It's about time people started noticing."

He says, sounding proud of his friend.

"Don't let it go to your head though, you're still the same shy guy that we know and love".

He teases, chuckling.

You giggle along with him. "Don't forget about us while you're famous."

Aphelios had yet to get use to his immediate rise of popularity, it was as if all of a sudden everyone in the university had him on their radar.Typical mornings of quietly walking to and from classes, hiding under an oversized hoodie had now changed to being stopped by every student in the hall to be greeted.

All of a sudden the quiet invisible introvert was now the center of attention with people wanting his insta, to being invited to hang out during lunch and even a few girls and guys admitting their crushes to him.

It was overwhelming to Aphelios in a positive way, it felt really good to be liked by everyone. He finally felt this surge of confidence boost his social life. He had begun to upload covers and original songs to youtube. While he didn't become viral online, he did gain plenty of likes and views (most of said views came from Jarro and yourself).

It had been a few months since he took that first step out of his comfort zone. However, he still found himself hanging around you and Jarro more than anyone else. You were still the people he trusted the most and the ones he felt the most comfortable around. He didn't need to be "popular" or "cool" around you two. You always had his back.

Jarro, always the supportive friend, was ecstatic for Aphelios as he watched his confidence grow. He often joked about how he was a proud "big brother" watching his "little bro" succeed.

Meanwhile, you were more than happy to see Aphelios blossom in his newfound popularity. You'd often chat with him about classes, school life, and of course, music. The three of you had grown closer, not just online friends but real friends.

It once again was a night where you were all on to game, you had started the call in the group chat and chatted to Jarro about your day while the two of you awaited for Aphelios to join. Classes were over according to this week's schedule which meant he should've joined by now.

"Have you heard anything from Aphelios? He's running late" you say as you type to mention Aphelios in the group chat to get his attention.

Jarro on the other end shakes his head. "Nah he still hasn't responded to my dm."

You frown. "You think something's up?"

"Unlikely, he's only half an hour late. He probably got caught up by another one of his fans~" he says with a chuckle.

Just as Jarro says that the tiny pop up "Aphelios is typing" your immediately notice it your eyes widening as you await his message.

신자의 무기 is typing...

신자의 무기: Sorry guys I'm feeling sick, I've got a cold so I can't really join vc.

As you read his message, a mixture of concern and disappointment washed over you.

Jarro, who was also reading the message, let out a sigh. He had been looking forward to gaming with Aphelios as usual, but it seemed like it wasn't going to happen tonight.

"He can still play right? just not talk?" You ask with a hopeful tone in your voice.

Jarro's icon glows green as his mic picks up him typing your question into chat.

Aphelios replies with a thumbs up.

You knew Aphelios would be unable to chat for a couple of days but it had been over a week since Aphelios had gotten sick, you were starting to worry for him.

Opening your dm's with him you begin to type.

(Y/U/N): Hey Phel, still got the cold?

신자의 무기 is typing...

신자의 무기: Yeh, it's just a sore throat... it won't go away.

You frown while reading this.

(Y/U/N): Have you considered seeing a doctor?

신자의 무기: Actually I have an appointment later this afternoon.

You sigh a little relieved.

(Y/U/N): Ok good

(Y/U/N): Update us when you can k?

Aphelios replies with a cute emote of a cartoon bunny with a thumbs up, making you smile.

(Y/U/N): ight see you later

And so you and Jarro would spend the afternoon gaming while you waited for Aphelios to come back online. You were in the middle of laughing at one of Jarro's jokes when you noticed he's gone quiet.

"Jarro?" You ask, checking if he's there.

"(Y/N) check the group chat."

You had barely noticed the discord notification sound, clicking on your task bar where awaited two messages from Aphelios.

신자의 무기: Guys

신자의 무기: I have some bad news.

A/N: And I finally did it! Chapter 1!! Lets fucking go!!! Original Heartsteel lore!!!!

[o-sachi]

Dress to Impress Headcanons Pt. 1 - for WinBre Week!

ᯓ what's it like to play the roblox game dress to impress with the Wind Breaker characters? ᯓ characters; sakura haruka, suo hayato, nirei akihiko, sugishita kyotaro, umemiya hajime, hiragi toma (more characs in the next part hopefully) ᯓ tags; crack, some profanity lol, gn reader, no y/n, can be platonic/romantic

[🐟]: for day 8 - side missions prompt! (because dti is a side mission) @windbreakerweek

Sakura Haruka

"How the fuck do I win..."

It will take forever to convince him to play because apparently 'there is no way he's playing dress-up that's made for children' but will fold as soon as you tell him he's just saying that because he hates you.

He keeps forgetting where certain items are and keeps going in circles around the place. That's why he thinks 5 minutes isn't enough.

"Where the fuck are the heels with the pretty pink bows? Man." / "You're going in circles, y'know?" / "Not my fault this shit's a maze."

Pretty standard outfits. Like they're not terrible, but they're not impressive enough to get 4 or 5 stars.

He's more of a simplicity-is-beauty type of guy so that also reflects in the kind of outfits that he makes. But the kids in the server are not having it.

"What does 'ate and served' mean?"

SO SALTY WHEN HE LOSES. But he'll brush it off and pretend that he's cool about it because he is not about to let anyone know he cares about some stupid dress-up game.

Suo Hayato

"Oh, look. I got first place again~"

He was easier to convince. But only if you knew how good he'd be, you wouldn't have asked him to play with you. Why? 'Cuz your morale is plummeting by the second.

He doesn't even need to try. Suo just lets his natural sense of style bleed into the way he plays the game AND HE WINS. He's pretty and so are his outfits.

Suo knows that it's mostly kids playing the game. So when he figures out there are younger people on the server, he'll rate them pretty high to put a smile on their face. (HE'S SO SWEET).

"Suo... it didn't even follow the theme." / "But it's quite nice, don't you think?"

You notice that you rank faster when you duo with him. You've been exploiting this little feature.

"We make a pretty good team, don't we?" / "Huh? Oh, yeah. Haha totally..."

Nirei Akihiko

"OH, this one's good... No, but this one's really good too..."

Nirei is everyone's hypeman: yours, the fashion mavens', the ten year olds who can't follow the theme—literally everyone.

He actually gets better so quickly by observing the outfits of those who win a lot. Like dude is analyzing a whole ass Roblox game. Not that it's intentional—more like it's in his nature.

He falls deep into the DTI rabbit hole. You know because he eagerly waits for updates and hunts for codes on the internet.

"Heyyyy, guess who learned a new code hm?"

His face lights up when you ask him to play... as if he doesn't ask you to play every chance he gets already...

DTI actually becomes his door leading to his descent into the world of Roblox. Seriously, he starts playing more Roblox because you started him with DTI. He also starts asking the other Furin guys to play too.

"Guys, let's do an obby next." / "A what?" / "An obby." / "Again, A WHAT?"

Sugishita Kyotaro

"... I swear I can do better than this..."

This man... this man was even harder to convince compared to Sakura. In fact, you almost gave up. Soooo... you convinced Ume instead (which was easier) and in turn, that forced Sugishita to try it out.

Didn't even ask how it works. He's just reading the text that pops up and goes with the flow.

I'm sorry but... he has the blandest style out of everyone in the main Furin group. Like, he doesn't even try to win AT ALL. But, y'know, A for effort!

"Oh... I have to vote for them?" / "Well, yeah... actually no, just give me 5 stars, okay?"

He plays DTI for a grand total of 3 times, all of which were because Ume asked him to play with the rest of the guys.

He's not much of a gamer to begin with... really, he'd much rather watch you play DTI and see your dramatic reactions to whatever's happening.

Umemiya Hajime

"HAHAHA What's with these silly poses?"

It's like a switch flips in him when he boots up the game and the DTI background song starts playing. He looks waaaaay too happy playing it.

He only started playing because all the hype surrounding it. Ume just wants to be part of the conversation and that's why he tried it out.

Talks way too much in the chat. Usually people just use it to provide more context for their outfits, but Ume actually makes conversation with players there. It's pretty funny to see.

"Look. So many people added me." / "Huh... well ain't that a surprise..."

He almost threw the Ipad out of excitement when he saw that the theme was gardening. He said he had to win or he'd literally die.

A pose 28 spammer, obviously.

"Aw, my game started lagging." / "It's 'cuz you keep spamming poses too fast." / "Dang it."

Hiragi Toma

"I'm not that good at it... okay, maybe just a bit."

He's an old man so bear with him when he tells you that he doesn't even know what a 'Roblox' is. He thought it was a vape flavor by the way.

"So... I have to dress-up and make people vote highly for me?" / "Yeah, it's called Dress to Impress for a reason." / "Oh, yeah. Fair."

He barely tries, but somehow he's kinda good at it? He's not insanely amazing at putting together outfits... but for a guy who's not trying that hard—he's doing pretty well for himself.

But he'll be too embarrassed to admit it. Hiragi would click his tongue and tell you to knock it off once you start complimenting his DTI skills.

He's a bit lost with the Gen Z/Gen Alpha terms, but he's trying to learn—slowly but surely like a little baby lamb learning how to walk.

Will rate you 5 stars no matter what. Everyone else is getting 1 star. Hiragi doesn't care.

"I didn't know you could hit poses here?" / "Yeah, look at this one." / "What the fuck kinda pose is that? Who's doing that on the runway? Bffr." / "Did you just—" / "Told you I'm learning things."

o-sachi © 2024 pls do not translate/copy/reupload my work on other platforms.

[g4laxy-drag0n]

Scientists torturing backronyms/acronyms happens a lot, actually (see my tags for examples)

Backronyms

Physicists suck at naming things (I can say this because I'm a MechE and I have had to deal with so many physicists), but occasionally they have a stroke of brilliance. Like, a friend of mine worked on a dark matter detector called DarkSide. That's so goofy that it wraps back around to good.

Anyway, there's this superconducting fusion reactor in france called WEST. It's notable for having first-wall shielding tiles (the innermost surface of the vacuum chamber, directly facing the fusion plasma) entirely made of tungsten.

There are a lot of materials used for plasma-facing components – tungsten, molybdenum, graphite, beryllium, various composites and combinations of the above – but it's pretty rare for a reactor to go full tungsten. It can take extremely high temperatures, but it's brittle and expensive, and "high-Z" (high molecular weight) impurities in the plasma cause their own issues. So, the main purpose of WEST is to investigate the viability of an all-tungsten first wall and divertor.

To that end, they tortured an acronym until they got it to work:

Tungsten Environment in Steady-state Tokamak

Or "WEST"

Get it?

GEW IW??

[annamatix]

spreading the mareven agenda anywhere i can

[imperatrice21]

Unwanted. Forgotten. Broken. Maven Calore has always lived in the shadow of his older brother. But when his mother offers him the chance to become a king it comes with a heavy expense. He must betray his family and the one person who truly understands him - Mare Barrow. Fed up with being a pawn in his mother's twisted game, Maven joins forces with the Scarlet Guard to expose Elara's sinister plans. Driven by his burning ambition to prove himself, he forges his own path. Yet the more Maven strives towards the light, the deeper he finds himself entangled with the darkness within. - Maven doesn't truly betray Mare

🔗 Wattpad 🔗 Archive of Our Own 🔗 Fanfiction.net 🔗 Quotev

[spacetelescopescience]

A Martian mystery: What happened to the water that once covered the Red Planet? Scientists know some of it went deep underground, but what became of the rest? Hubble and MAVEN Mission to Mars teamed up to help scientists understand the history of water on Mars: https://bit.ly/3X37nsZ

[mindblowingscience]

A small team of planetary scientists, astrophysicists and space flight researchers affiliated with several institutions in the U.S. and one in France has made the first direct detection of atmospheric sputtering on Mars. In their paper published in the journal Science Advances, the group describes how they used data from NASA's MAVEN probe to determine that argon densities in a part of the Martian atmosphere vary depending on the behavior of incoming solar wind and its electric field, compared to argon densities at different altitudes that remain consistent and explain why it offers evidence of atmospheric sputtering on Mars.

Continue Reading.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

The Stranger: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Summary: When an unsub is killing young women in San Diego, your team is called in before he can rack up the number of victims. He's targeting babysitters and it's your job to figure out why. Meanwhile, Frank ups the pressure on you and Spencer, something that will definitely put a wedge in your relationship.

Season Six Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If any warnings exceed the normal deaths/kills from the show, I will list them.

x

"Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters." - Stephen King

Spencer has his arm wrapped around your shoulders as you push the bar of the exit door to the theater. The movie is still playing but Penelope made everyone leave due to it being too gory.

"Unnecessary. There's too much blood and gore and eew," Penelope shudders.

"Garcia, it's a slasher film. How do you do a slasher film without violence?" Spencer laughs.

"You imply it."

"Baby, the movie is called 'Slice 6'. What were you expecting?"

"A refreshing beverage with a twist of comedy. I'm gonna have nightmares for a week."

"With everything that we do and see on a daily basis, that got to you?" Ashley asks.

"Listen, newb, you may be all Sigourney Weaver ass-kicking tough, which is awesome, but the mystical mavens of innocence like myself jump at things that go bump in the night."

"Why are you worried? I'm sure that Morgan will protect you," Spencer snickers. "As long as he's not jumping out of his chair like a prepubescent schoolgirl."

"The only reason I jumped is 'cause you guys woke me up," Derek defends himself.

"How could you sleep during that?"

"Easy. You drag me out after a twelve-hour workday for what? Are you telling me that the girl didn't know that the unsub was waiting for her upstairs? Come on, now."

"Villain," Spencer corrects.

"What?"

"In movies, unsubs are called villains."

"My bad," Derek rolls his eyes.

"You want to know why horror movies are so successful?"

"Tell 'em, baby," you grin.

"They prey on our instinctual need to survive. In tribal days, a woman's scream would signal danger and the men would return from hunting to protect their pack. That's why it's always the women and not the men who fall victim to the bogeyman."

"Count on you, Reid, to break a movie down to science," Penelope laughs.

"My favorite thing about horror movies is the suspense factor," Ashley says. "The helpless victim walks through the dark... Shadows reaching out to get her. A sudden noise draws her attention. Is someone there, or is it just in her head?"

"Still, it's totally unrealistic. No one should be walking through a dark alley by themselves at night."

"Ahem," Derek clears his throat. "Hello?"

"Sorry. No one should be walking through a dark alley without a Derek Morgan by their side," she grins and pulls him into her side.

"The best part of a horror movie... You never know when the end is gonna come."

"So, when is the wedding?" Penelope asks.

You and Spencer look at each other, and he smiles. "I don't know. We're really in no rush to get it done, and we just want it to be perfect. We are having it at a botanical garden. There's a beautiful one right here in Virginia so you don't have to travel far for it."

"Let me know if you want some pointers on the honeymoon," Derek grins.

"I'll be sure to come to you," Spencer laughs.

"Whenever you decide to do it, I'm planning your bachelorette party. I already told JJ I'm taking that one," Penelope says.

"Alright, it's yours," you grin.

In the morning, you arrive at work with Spencer and see Rossi on his way to the briefing room.

"How was your weekend?" he asks you two.

"We went to see 'Slice 6' with Derek, Penelope, and Ashley. Pen made us leave early. She claimed it was too gory."

"It was a good movie, and it's hard to find slasher movies that are good these days," Spencer says. "What we didn't see coming is the slicer's brother was in the closet."

"Frightening," Rossi chuckles.

"His betrayal consumed him and he sent his brother to his own private hell."

You pass by Hotch's office and see Strauss in there talking to him. Spencer and Rossi notice her, too, but you continue to the briefing room instead of hanging out outside the office.

"Speaking of horror," Rossi mutters.

"What is Strauss doing here?"

"Whatever it is, I cast my vote on 'not good'," Penelope says.

Seconds later, Hotch comes into the briefing room giving no indication on his face of what the meeting was about.

"Let's get started."

"Okay," Penelope clears her throat. "Monica Shanley, Natalie Wallace, and Amber Lasko were three college students who were killed in their off-campus apartments in the last five days. Two were going to San Diego Coastal University, and one was going to San Diego Tech."

Pictures of the three girls are put onto the screen, and you immediately notice a similarity between them.

"The unsub definitely has a type. They could all be related," you say.

"They're all in their early twenties, brunette, and majoring in education and/or child development."

"Is there any indication that they knew one another?" Ashley asks.

"As it stands right now, I'm coming up empty. Their apartments were spread throughout the city, and no fingerprints were at the crime scene. The unsub must have used gloves."

"He's organized."

"There was forced entry at all the apartments at the back door, patio door, and living room window. The homes were wrecked. That's a clear evidence of a struggle. He's creating a scene. He wants to inflict fear not only in his victim but in whoever finds the body."

"It could be a message to the local PD. 'Look what I can do.'"

"He's killed three women in under a week. In all likelihood, he's hunting for his fourth victim now. San Diego PD wants us on the scene as soon as possible."

You don't waste time in getting to the jet. As soon as everyone is on, the pilot takes off.

"Our unsub has a type and a temper. Amber was getting ready for her bath. It would have been an easy target for a sexual assault, but none came. That's highly unusual behavior for this kind of unsub."

"Extreme violence in physical aggression is in its nature sexual," Spencer explains.

"That's true, but as a substitution for the sex act. This guy could be impotent. He can't perform so that's why he goes all out for the kill."

"If he's targeting female college students, we need to make sure that campus officials are informed if they haven't been already. We also can't rule out other students and faculty," Hotch says.

"You know, San Diego's essentially one big college town, with an enrollment at SDCU of approximately sixty-five thousand students. San Diego County has nine universities, five private and four public. We add seven more if we're including trade schools," Spencer says.

"Each girl lived off-campus and was attacked in their apartment. That's pretty high risk. It's less risky if he's stalking them in advance like running layouts and routines."

"Between classes and part-time jobs, they'd be home sporadically at best which tells us they're not victims of opportunity. He targets them, then stalks them to know where they live and when they're gonna be alone."

"Morgan, you, Y/N, and Reid go to the last victim's apartment. Seaver, interview the roommate. Dave and I will go to the medical examiner's office."

All three victims have defensive wounds on their arms which means they put up a fight. With each new victim, the stab wounds increase. On Monica, the wounds show hesitation as if the unsub has never done this before or he felt remorse. She also had a fatal blow directly to the heart.

The unsub might have gotten lucky with her.

By the time he gets to the third kill, he's more experienced and he knows what he's doing. The cuts are more direct, and Amber died from massive blood loss. He made the struggle last longer with her because he wanted her to suffer.

Now, he's starting to enjoy it.

The only place to park for Amber's apartment is a parking garage behind the building, so Derek pulls into it as soon as you three left the airport. This place being unsecured means anyone with a car can access it. That doesn't narrow down your list of suspects. You three get out and start walking to her building.

"This isn't secure parking," Derek comments.

"I rode a bike when I was in college."

"Baby, you weren't old enough to drive," you chuckle.

"I could drive. It's just that the government wouldn't issue me a license until I was fourteen." He looks around the parking garage. "There's a lot of places for the unsub to hide out here."

"Yeah, he could have easily grabbed her when she passed through here."

"Yet she made it all the way to her apartment where she should feel safe, but then he took that from her." You walk inside her apartment and meet with the detective on the case. "Hi, I'm Agent Y/N and they are Agent Derek Morgan and Dr. Spencer Reid."

"I'm Detective Bryce Harding. Amber's roommate, Michelle, told us she was out of town visiting family when the attack occurred."

"The unsub must have known that. That's why he made his move last night."

"He jimmied the lock on the window," the detective says and shows you the broken window.

"I guess he needed the privacy to complete the torture."

"Well, most sadists like to kill on their own turf. This guy didn't risk taking her to a secondary location."

You stand in the corner of the room overlooking the rest of the apartment. You connect with her energy rather than the unsub's to paint you a pretty picture of what happened. When you open your eyes, you're brought to last night. The front door opens and Amber walks in, having just come from the gun. She looks sweaty and wearing workout clothes. She has headphones in, and you follow her to her bedroom which is connected to her bathroom.

She walks into her bathroom and turns the tub on to get the water to warm up while you assume she will start to undress for her bath or shower. While the tub is running, she walks back into her bedroom. Instead of watching her, you walk back into the living room to see the unsub already at the window. Much like you assume, he jimmies the lock before it breaks, and he slides the window up. He slips inside without alerting Amber, which you know she still has her headphones in.

You can't see what he looks like because he wears a stark white mask, hiding from people like you.

The unsub searches through her apartment first, not like he's looking for anything specific, just to see what she has. You walk back into the bedroom to see Amber just about to light a candle. That's when she notices the unsub's shadow on the ground through her open bedroom door. She walks slowly into the living room and screams when she sees the unsub. 

He takes off running toward her, and she books it back into her bedroom. She doesn't have time to close the bedroom door but she does try to close the bathroom door on him. You slip inside the bathroom right before she can close it so you're in the bathroom with her. The unsub tries pushing it open and reaching through the slit, but she's strong. She slams the bathroom door closed and locks it but it doesn't keep the unsub out. 

He busts the door open and she falls back into the bathtub in shock, taking the curtains down with her. He jumps on top of her and stabs her repeatedly. She tried to put up a fight. You have to give her that.

"Y/N?" You snap out of the trance and notice you've made your way into the bloody bathtub. You turn to see Derek and Spencer at the doorway. "Maybe something happened which makes the location of the kill significant. Look. That's something new. He's smearing blood on the walls, exhibiting more control and rage over his victims, taking pleasure in the kill."

"What's with the specific physical type?" Detective Harding asks.

"It looks like he's taking his anger out on women who represent someone he knows."

"Yeah, like Edmund Kemper," Spencer agrees. "He most likely can't confront his true target yet, so he's going after women who look like her until he can build up the confidence to complete his endgame."

Amber had a lot of friends who cared about her, especially her roommate who had been friends with her since the third grade. Amber wasn't the type of girl to go out. She loved spending time to herself inside the safety of her apartment. Michelle had a hard time trying to get her out because Amber worked her ass off. She didn't have time for trivial things like college parties.

She needed the money so she was working odd jobs like dog walking or horse sitting or proofreading. She'd get those odd jobs from coffee houses, Craiglist, or the student center. Anywhere that had a bulletin board people can post on. That means just about anyone could have noticed her and decided to stalk her.

x

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[jgoddesstarot]

Pick-A-Pile: Their Career: What Profession or Field is Your Future Spouse In?

👑Check out my masterlist to see all of my pick-a-card readings😊

✨ Visit my shops at Ko-fi.com or J.Goddess Tarot✨

🔮Disclaimer: This reading is for entertainment purposes only. Tarot readings are based upon my intuitive interpretation of the cards and about possibilities based on your current energy. Energy is forever changing and nothing is set in stone. Always remember, you have your own free will to make whatever decision you feel is best.

🔮How I read: I use a mix of tarot cards, oracle cards, along with my intuitive abilities of claircognizance, clairaudience, and clairsentience.

🔮How this works: Close your eyes and take deep breaths, pick the pile you are most drawn to. If you aren’t drawn to any pile then that’s okay, these messages aren’t for you.

Pile 1

Tarot Cards: 5 of Cups, The Lovers, The Hermit (in reverse), Queen of Cups, The Chariot

Ah, my sultry Pile 1's! Embark with me on an intoxicating voyage to uncover the career secrets of your elusive future love.

Picture a soul who's tasted the bittersweet symphony of life. They've endured setbacks, but here's the allure: instead of languishing in bygone disappointments, they've channeled these lessons, forging a path glowing with promise. Like a phoenix, they've taken their setbacks and used them as fuel, emerging brighter and more determined.

Now, imagine them weaving through a world where harmony and connections reign supreme. Their charm lies in the art of building bridges, mending fences, and orchestrating unions. Their profession thrums with the rhythm of relationships, be it in the hallways of legal battles, the nuanced dance of consultancy, or the embrace of human resources. Their every endeavor is painted with passion, fostering environments dripping with mutual respect.

But, the plot thickens. Rather than being an isolated genius, they thrive in the pulsating heart of collaborative arenas. Their days are painted with group dynamics, team brainstorming, and the infectious energy of collective creation. Every project, a harmonious dance of diverse minds.

In this riveting tale, their heart emerges as their compass—a wellspring of empathy, care, and intuition. Whether in the healing embrace of healthcare, the nurturing realms of social work, or the soulful corridors of counseling, their profession beckons to souls in need, offering solace and understanding.

And as our tale nears its climax, the essence of sheer willpower and ambition becomes palpable. This lover is destined to blaze trails, to dominate arenas with a fierce determination that sets the world alight. They are a force, a whirlwind of goals and victories, and their chosen field echoes with their triumphant strides.

To tie this enigmatic tale together, enchanting Pile 1's, your future lover’s career is an exhilarating blend of resilience, harmony, collaboration, empathy, and fierce ambition. This tantalizing mix promises a partner whose professional life mirrors a journey of challenges, triumphs, and heart. As Destiny weaves its tapestry, these revelations hint at the captivating tale of your shared future.

Pile 2

Tarot Cards: 5 of Swords, 10 of Wands, 2 of Swords, Ace of Cups, 8 of Wands

My tantalizing Pile 2's, prepare to embark on a riveting journey, delving into the exhilarating career landscape of your enigmatic future love.

Visualize a realm teeming with cutthroat competition and exhilarating duels of wit. In this world, your future spouse emerges as a master strategist, a maven who thrives amidst the electric tension of challenges. Their arena? Perhaps the high stakes corridors of corporate warfare or the intricate dance of political maneuvering.

Yet, with power comes responsibility. They might be ensnared in a web of weighty expectations, but ah, they wear their burdens like a king wears a crown—regal and undeterred. Every decision, every responsibility is borne with a grace that makes you wonder if they were born for this.

Peering deeper, we find them at the crossroads of pivotal decisions, casting judgments that ripple through time. The gavel of authority, the responsibility of steering ships through turbulent waters, they're at the helm, orchestrating outcomes with a finesse that's nothing short of mesmerizing.

But what fuels this fire? An undying passion, a wellspring of love for their craft. They're not just chasing gold or accolades, but a deeper calling, a passion that lights up their soul. Their realm could be awash with colors on a canvas, the poetic dance of numbers, or the rhythm of heartfelt melodies.

And as the tale unfolds, a whirlwind of motion emerges. Envision them dashing through airports, or fervently connecting with souls across continents, weaving stories, striking deals, or capturing moments at the speed of light. The pulse of journalism? The adrenaline of sales? The world awaits their next move.

In wrapping up our delicious tale, my alluring Pile 2's, Destiny paints your future lover as a formidable force in a world of strategy, responsibility, passion, and ceaseless motion. Their journey promises thrills, challenges, and the sweet taste of fulfillment. As the stars align and tales intertwine, remain receptive, for destiny has its own rhythm, and your dance is just beginning.

Pile 3

Tarot Cards: 10 of Pentacles, 3 of Pentacles (in reverse), 6 of Wands (in reverse), 10 of Swords, 3 of Swords

Ah, my alluring Pile 3's, immerse yourself as we journey into the opulent tapestry of your future lover's career. Let the tantalizing revelations unravel, revealing a narrative you'll surely find hard to resist.

First, picture a world awash with prosperity—a realm where luxury isn't just a fantasy, but an everyday reality. In this gilded domain, your future partner thrives, perhaps manipulating the strings of business empires, orchestrating the ballet of real estate, or mastering the cryptic language of finance. They've crafted an empire, not just of wealth, but of ambition realized and dreams manifested.

But ah, the plot thickens! Every gold thread in this tapestry was spun amidst trials. In their earlier days, shadows of doubt and walls of disregard might have threatened to eclipse their brilliance. Yet, with indomitable spirit, they emerged, carving a niche where their genius could no longer be overshadowed.

Despite the accolades and the tangible trophies of success, there's an enigmatic humility to them. They waltz through the corridors of achievement, not with boisterous fanfare, but with a quiet confidence. They let their masterpieces echo their tales, garnering silent respect from every corner.

As our tale takes a riveting turn, we find them at a crossroads—a dramatic shift that upended their world but paved the way to their destiny. A switch that might've tasted bitter initially, but ultimately led them to their passion, their true north.

And oh, the finale? A heart so vast, so tender. Their profession might echo with the soft murmurs of comforting words, the healing touch that mends broken spirits. Whether in the embrace of healthcare, the sanctuary of counseling, or the comforting realms of social work, their purpose is clear: to heal, to comfort, to uplift.

To wrap up our sumptuous saga, delectable Pile 3's, Destiny paints your future lover as a beacon of resilience, prosperity, humility, transformation, and boundless compassion. Their career is not just a job; it's a testament to a journey of trials turned triumphs. As fate weaves its stories, savor these revelations and remain enchanted by the cosmic dance of love and Destiny."

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