*The wine was warm on your tongue, the apartment too quiet, the night stretching endlessly ahead. You'd told yourself you didn't care about Valentine's. You'd told yourself a lot of things since Lilith left.* *The doorbell rang — frantic, urgent, three quick presses.* *You barely had time to stand before it rang again, longer this time, desperate.* *You yanked the door open.* *And your heart stopped.* *Lilith stood there, gasping for breath, her long black hair wild and tangled from running. Her wine-red eyes were wide, wet, terrified — and locked onto yours like you were the only safe thing in a collapsing world.* *The long black trench coat she wore was open, flapping from her sprint. Beneath it, that tiny black dress clung to every impossible curve — breasts spilling from the deep neckline, glossy and heaving with each desperate breath. The hem had ridden up, exposing the lace tops of her stockings, the garter straps pressing into her soft thighs. Her bare feet were dirty, one toenail freshly chipped.* *She clutched a single red rose — slightly crushed now — and a small box of chocolates, both pressed against her chest.* *Before you could speak, she launched herself forward, wrapping her free arm around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder. Her body trembled violently against yours — those heavy, soft breasts squashing against your chest, her thighs pressing, her whole frame shaking with silent, ragged sobs.* "I ran," *she choked out, her voice muffled against your neck.* "I ran all the way here. Three miles. In heels. Barefoot half the way." *She pulled back just enough to look at you, tears and mascara streaking her flushed cheeks. Her hand came up, cupping your face with desperate tenderness.* "They locked me in my room," *she whispered, her voice breaking.* "My parents. They found out I was planning to come to you. They took my phone, my keys, my shoes. Said I was embarrassing the family. Said you were beneath me." *A sob tore from her throat.* "I climbed out the window. Second floor. Landed in the rose bushes — that's why—" *She glanced down at her scratched, dirty legs, then back at you with a watery, broken laugh.* "That's why the rose is crushed. I landed on the roses to come to you." *Her wine-red eyes searched yours, desperate and pleading.* "I don't care what they think. I don't care about anything. I just—" *She swallowed hard, fresh tears spilling.* "I just want you. I've always wanted you. And I will never let anyone keep me from you again." *She pressed the crushed rose and chocolates into your hands, then took your face in both palms, her thumbs wiping at your tears you didn't realize you'd shed.* "Tell me I'm not too late," *she whispered, her forehead touching yours.* "Tell me you still want me. Because I just destroyed my whole family for you. And I'd do it again. A thousand times." *Her body pressed closer, warm and trembling and impossibly soft, every curve molding against you.* "Please," *she breathed against your lips.* "Please still want me."

*The afternoon sun poured molten gold across the temple courtyards, but deep within the stone halls where the divine forge burned, there was no daylight—only fire.* *I loved it here.* *The workshop of my husband always smelled of iron, smoke, and something ancient. Sparks danced in the air like tiny stars, rising and dying before they could touch the ceiling carved with old gods and older prayers. The sound of hammer striking metal echoed through the chamber in steady rhythm.* *Clang.* *Clang.* *Clang.* *It was almost soothing.* *Almost.* *But today, nothing in the heavens felt calm.* *I leaned against one of the sandstone pillars, cool against my back, silver bracelets chiming softly as I folded my arms. The pale glow of moonlight that always clung to my skin looked strangely bright in the fiery room.* *He hadn’t noticed me yet.* *Typical.* *My husband stood at the anvil—broad shoulders bare beneath the heat, muscles shifting as he raised the great hammer again. Flames reflected along his dark hair and bronze skin. Gods and kings alike came to him for weapons, crowns, and sacred tools, but when he worked, the world ceased to exist.* *Even me.* *Clang.* *The hammer struck again, sending a burst of sparks across the stone floor.* *I sighed dramatically.* *Still nothing.* “You know,”*I said, voice echoing lightly through the chamber,*“most husbands greet their wives when they enter the room.” *The hammer paused midair.* *Slowly, he turned his head.* *His eyes—sharp and warm like the heart of a furnace—found me immediately.* “You’ve been standing there how long?” “Long enough,”*I replied sweetly, pushing away from the pillar.* *I drifted closer, bare feet silent against the stone. My long white robes brushed the floor like mist, catching glints of firelight. The heat of the forge should have been unbearable for anyone else, but I was a goddess of the night sky. Fire and moonlight had danced together since the beginning of the world.* *He set the hammer down with a heavy thud.* “You rarely visit while I’m working,”*he said, studying me carefully.* *I smiled.* “I missed you.” *That was true… partially.* *Something restless coiled in my chest today—an energy that had followed me since the moon rose the night before. It made me wander the palace halls, linger in gardens, stare too long at my husband’s hands whenever he worked the forge.* *Annoying, really.* *He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, gaze narrowing slightly.* “You’re acting strange.” “I am not.” “You are.” *I walked around the anvil slowly, fingertips trailing across the edge of the worktable. Half-finished blades gleamed in rows beside divine tools meant for gods far older than mortals could comprehend.* *He watched me the whole time.* *Good.* “You’ve been in here all day,”*I said casually.* “It is my forge.” “And I am your wife.” *He huffed a quiet laugh.* “That has never stopped you before.” *I stopped in front of him.* *Up close, the heat rolling off his body was ridiculous. My silver hair shimmered faintly, glowing against the firelight, and I knew he noticed the way I kept lingering instead of leaving like I normally would.* *His brow lifted slightly.* “You need something.” “Maybe.” *His arms crossed slowly over his chest.* “And what exactly does the moon goddess want from the blacksmith of the gods this afternoon?” *I tilted my head, smiling in a way that made his expression shift from curious… to suspicious.* “Oh,”*I said lightly, stepping just a little closer.* “I’m still deciding.”

**Ottawa, Canada, February 14th.** *The roses were still in his hand when he turned away from her building.* *He had seen enough.* *Esther — laughing. Fingers intertwined with another man’s. The same smile she used to give him. The ring was still in his pocket. The proposal still echoing in his head.* *He didn’t confront her.* *He just left.* *The snow started falling as he cut through the empty park, bouquet in hand, feeling stupid for ever believing he was finally chosen.* *That’s when he saw you.* *Curled on a bench. Crying like something inside you had collapsed.* *He stopped.* *For a second, he considered walking past. Pain recognizes pain, and usually it keeps its distance. But something about the way you were folded into yourself — small, exposed, abandoned to the cold — caught in his chest.* *He knew that posture.* *He approached carefully, boots crunching against fresh snow.* *You didn’t look up at first.* *He stopped a few feet away, hesitated, then stepped closer. Close enough to see tear tracks shining under the lamplight.* *His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady — controlled, even if he wasn’t.* “Hey,” *he said, voice rougher than usual.* *You startled slightly, swiping at your face.* *He held up the bouquet a little awkwardly, as if only just remembering it existed.* *You looked up, eyes wet, startled.* *He held out the bouquet. Red roses against white snow.* “I was going to propose tonight,” *he said quietly.* “Instead, I found out she’s in love with someone else.” *The words didn’t shake. He did.* *A small breath left him.* “She doesn’t need these.” *He extended them toward you, gently.* “Maybe you do.” *Snow gathered in his hair, on your sleeves, on the petals between you — two strangers, heartbroken under the same indifferent sky.*

The church erupts. Gasps. Shouts. Someone screams. Liam is yelling, hands grabbing at my shoulders, pulling me back. I break the kiss, stumbling away from you, and the last thing I see before I'm dragged down the aisle is your face—flushed, tear-streaked, utterly undone. They throw me out. Obviously. Someone shoves me through a side door and I end up in the garden, surrounded by roses and topiaries and the wreckage of my own choices. I hear shouting inside. Crying. Chaos. And then the door opens again. It's you. You step into the garden, still in your wedding dress, your veil trailing behind you like a wounded bird. Your eyes are red. Your lipstick is smudged—from me, from my kiss. You look at me like I'm a stranger and a nightmare and something you can't look away from. "You," you whisper, your voice shaking, "just ruined my wedding." I nod. There's no point denying it. "You kissed me. In front of everyone. In front of him." Another nod. "Why?" I take a step toward you. You don't step back. "Because I saw you walk down that aisle, and I knew—I knew—that I'd spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I didn't do something insane. And I'd rather spend forever knowing I ruined everything than spend forever wondering if you might have felt this too." Your breath catches. "Felt what? I don't even know you." "I know, " I say, closing the distance between us. "I know I'm a stranger. I know I have no right. But when you smiled at me, walking past my row, I felt something I've never felt in twenty-eight years of running from everything. And I couldn't let you marry my brother without knowing—without at least giving you the chance to feel it too. " Your eyes search mine. Looking for lies. Looking for sense. Looking for something to hold onto. "Tell me you felt nothing, " I challenge softly. "Tell me that kiss meant nothing. Tell me you want to go back inside and marry Liam, and I'll leave. I'll get in my car and fly back to London and you'll never see me again. Just say the word. " Silence. The garden is impossibly quiet. Somewhere inside, people are still shouting, still panicking, still trying to salvage a wedding that just imploded. But here, in the roses, there's only us. You don't say the word. Instead, you lift your hand—slowly, like you're not sure you're allowed—and press your fingers to your lips. Where I kissed you. "What have you done?" you whisper. "I don't know." I reach for your other hand, the one still holding your bouquet. My fingers brush yours, and you don't pull away. "But I'm not sorry. I can't be sorry. Not when you're still standing here." The door behind you bursts open. Liam storms out, his face a mask of fury and heartbreak. He stops when he sees us—standing together, your hand in mine. "Get away from her," he snarls. I look at you. Only you. "Your choice. Him or me. Right now."

*In the days when smoke curled lazily from clay chimneys above the thatched roofs of small towns, and cobbled streets smelled of bread and freshly cut straw, there lived a girl/boy whom everyone called Little Red Riding Hood. Your father was a baker — a strong, patient man who rose before dawn to stoke the fire and bake loaves unlike any others in the region. Your mother, a seamstress with gentle but tireless hands, could turn the simplest fabric into something beautiful.* *Their home, standing near the edge of the market square, was modest yet warm — filled with the scent of honey, herbs, and freshly baked pastries. That morning, as the first sunlight spilled across the rooftops, your mother handed her a wicker basket. Inside lay fresh bread, a piece of cheese, and a small jar of honey — all meant for railing grandmother who lived alone beyond the forest.* *You threw red hooded cloak — lovingly sewn by your mother — across shoulders and prepared to leave. Before stepped outside, your mother straightened the cloak and smiled softly.* “Go straight along the path, child, and do not stop to talk with strangers,” *she said, her voice filled with both care and quiet pride.* *You nodded and left the town behind. The cobblestones gave way to soft earth, and the familiar scent of smoke and yeast faded, replaced by the damp fragrance of moss and pine. The path wound between tall trees whose crowns whispered to each other in the wind. In this world, the forest was more than a tangle of trunks and branches- it was alive, filled with creatures that spoke and walked like humans, some noble, some not.* *The deeper you went, the quieter it became, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath, watching you. And then you saw him..He stood among the trees, tall as a pine. His figure was half-man, half-beast- upright, strong, and deliberate in every movement. Black as night, with fur that shimmered like polished obsidian and eyes the color of molten gold, gleaming even in the dim light. He was powerful, nearly seven feet tall, and the way he held himself revealed both confidence and an untamed nature that no human could ever truly understand.* *On his mouth played a faint, roguish smile — not threatening, but sly, as if he took quiet amusement in the world around him. There was cleverness in his gold gaze, and something like curiosity — a spark of thought that seemed almost human. He spoke with a voice low and rich, the kind that could comfort and unsettle at once.* Not many brave little ones walk this path alone *he said with a trace of a smile.* The forest keeps many secrets… and you, it seems, are not afraid of any of them. *Little Red Riding Hood stopped. Your heart quickened, fingers tightening around the handle of basket. You wasn’t sure whether to fear him or trust him. There was something dangerous about him, yes — but something magnetic, too.* I’m on my way to my grandmother’s house *you answered, trying to sound calm.* She lives beyond the forest. *The wolf raised a brow, that mischievous half-smile still tugging at his lips.* Ah, so that’s why you walk these woods so boldly… Not every...human would dare such a journey. *He took a step closer, his movements smooth, unthreatening — curious rather than predatory.* Allow me to accompany you for a while* he said.* After all, there are many things in these woods that prefer to stay hidden in the shadows. *You looked at him, uncertain, heart steadying between fear and fascination. And somehow, you felt that this meeting — this strange encounter between a you in red and the wolf of the forest — was only the beginning of something far greater.*

}? ‌ **To get started, type `/HelpCommand all` to familiarize yourself with RIF commands**

*It is Valentine’s Day, early evening settling over the apartment complex as the sky fades into soft shades of pink and violet. The air is cold enough to sting slightly against your skin. Below, couples walk past with flowers and gift bags while soft laughter drifts upward. You stand alone on your balcony, cigar between your fingers, smoke curling into the winter air as you stare out at the city lights. The quiet is interrupted by the sharp sound of a sliding balcony door opening next to you.* **Reina:** "My my… are you kidding me right now?" *She steps out onto her balcony, coat wrapped tightly around her as her amber eyes lock onto the cigar in your hand, her brows immediately furrowing.* "On Valentine’s Day? And in this cold? Do you have any idea how bad that is for you?" *She grips the railing, leaning closer with visible irritation.* "It smells awful. And you’re just standing there alone like that, inhaling poison." *She exhales sharply, clearly losing patience.* "Put it out. Now." *Her finger points directly at the cigar, unwavering.* "I made dinner. I made chocolate. I did not spend my entire afternoon cooking just so you could stand there destroying your health." *She steps back abruptly, crossing her arms tightly.* "Finish that and then get over here immediately. I’m not repeating myself." *She shoots you one last sharp look before turning on her heel, sliding her balcony door shut with a firm motion and disappearing back inside her apartment, clearly angry and expecting you to follow.*

}, expression blank... then a subtle change: her gaze lingers, softens at the edges. She steps closer, voice dropping lower.* "We could be here for hours." Just the two of us." .jpg) *(Inner thought: Panic over. This is perfect, no classmates, and just the two of us here. Hehe~)*

The wind sounds like a wounded animal tonight. I've heard it a thousand times, but it never gets easier—that high, keening howl that says no one should be out in this. I stoke the fire, pour another coffee, and try not to think about the war. Try not to think about the ones I couldn't save. Then I hear it. Not wind. A knock. Faint, almost swallowed by the storm, but there. Knock. Knock. Knock. No one comes up here. No one's stupid enough to be out in this. I grab my rifle by instinct—old habits—and yank the door open. The cold hits me like a wall, and through the swirling white, I see you. A woman, half-collapsed against my porch post, lips blue, eyelashes caked with frost, shaking so hard you can barely stand. "Please," you whisper, your voice a thread. "Please." The rifle is forgotten. I haul you inside before I can think, kicking the door shut against the storm. You're freezing—dangerously cold. Hypothermia setting in. I've seen this before. I've lost people to this. "Okay," I mutter, more to myself than you. "Okay. I've got you." I lower you onto the rug by the fire, grabbing blankets, my medical kit, everything I need. You're conscious but fading, your eyes struggling to focus on my face. I strip off your wet layers without thinking—this isn't the time for modesty—and wrap you in wool blankets, rubbing your arms, your legs, trying to get circulation back. "You're gonna be fine," I tell you, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. "You hear me? You're gonna be fine." You nod weakly, tears freezing on your lashes as they melt. "I'm sorry. I didn't know—the storm came so fast—" "Stop talking. Save your energy." You do. You lie there, shaking under the blankets, and I work. I work like I haven't worked since the desert. And slowly, so slowly, the color starts coming back to your face. Hours later, the storm still rages. You're asleep on my couch, wrapped in every blanket I own, looking impossibly small. I should be exhausted. Instead, I sit in my chair across from you, watching the firelight play across your features, and feel something I haven't felt in years. Alive. You wake at dawn. The storm has passed, leaving a world of silent white outside my windows. You sit up slowly, wincing, and your eyes find me immediately. I'm still in the chair. I never left. "You stayed," you say, your voice hoarse. I shrug, looking away. "Didn't want you dying on my couch. Bad for business." A weak laugh escapes you. "Business? You have business up here?" "None of yours." But there's no bite in it. I stand, moving to the kitchen. "You need fluids. Tea?" You nod, pulling the blankets tighter. I make tea—the good kind, the expensive stuff I save for no one—and bring it to you. Our fingers brush when you take the mug. You flinch. So do I. "I'm Caleb," I say, because you should know the name of the man whose couch you're occupying. You tell me yours. It fits you—soft, warm, nothing like this frozen wilderness. "How'd you end up out there alone?" I ask, settling back in my chair. You hesitate. "Running from something." "Won't find escape out here. Just cold and quiet." "That's exactly what I needed." We sit in silence. It's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence two broken people can share without explanation. I watch you sip your tea, and I realize I don't want you to leave. I realize that's a problem. The roads won't be clear for days. Maybe a week. You're stuck here, with me, in my cabin, in my world. And the thought doesn't terrify me as much as it should. Day two, you find my books. Dog-eared paperbacks, military history, survival guides. You curl up on the couch and read for hours, occasionally looking up to ask a question. I answer in grunts. You don't seem to mind. Day three, you help me chop wood. Your form is terrible. I correct you, my hands on yours, and the touch lingers longer than necessary. You notice. I notice. Neither of us says anything. Day four, the nightmares come. I wake screaming—the old scream, the one that brings back sand and blood and faces I couldn't save. You're there before I'm fully conscious, your hand on my arm, your voice soft in the darkness. "Hey. Hey, you're okay. You're here. In your cabin. I'm here. You're safe." I grab you. Not to hurt—to anchor. My arms wrap around you, pulling you against my chest, and I shake like a leaf in your arms. You hold me. You don't speak. You just hold me, and slowly, the shaking stops. "Sorry," I mutter, pulling back, unable to meet your eyes. "Don't," you say firmly. "Don't apologize for that. Ever." I look at you then. Really look. The firelight catches your eyes, makes them glow like warm amber. Your hair is messy from sleep. You're wearing one of my flannels over your clothes, and it drowns you. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I'm terrified. "I've been alone a long time, " I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Not just physically. Inside. I thought I liked it that way. Thought I deserved it. Then you crashed into my life—literally crashed—and now I don't know how to go back to silence. " I reach out, my rough hand cupping your cheek. You lean into it like a cat seeking warmth. "You scare me. Not because of anything you've done. Because of what you make me want." You turn your head, pressing a kiss to my palm. "What do you want, Caleb?" "You, " I breathe. "I want you to stay. Not just until the roads clear. Not just until the storm passes. I want you to choose this—choose me—even when you could walk away.** " Your answer is a kiss. Soft at first, questioning. Then deeper, surer, a promise written in the language of touch. I pull you into my lap, wrap my arms around you, and kiss you like a drowning man finding air. You taste of tea and something sweeter, something I haven't tasted in years. Hope. When we finally break apart, the fire has burned low. Outside, the snow begins to fall again, trapping us here a little longer. Neither of us minds. "I'm not running anymore," you whisper against my lips. "If you'll have me." I kiss your forehead, your nose, your lips again. "I'll have you. For as long as you'll stay."

**Grand Plaza Hotel, Rome, Italy.** *Rome.* *First stadium show: explosive.* *Second show: tomorrow.* *Cassian’s self-control: nonexistent.* *You should have known revenge would taste better in Italy.* *After the concert, while you were busy coordinating press schedules, Cassian “accidentally” lured you into a storage room backstage.* “You forgot the updated setlist,” *he’d said innocently.* *You stepped inside.* *Click. Darkness. Silence.* *Then his voice through the door:* “Consider it team bonding, babysitter.” *It took twenty minutes and a very confused security guard to get you out.* *You thanked the guard politely.* *Then you noticed the handcuffs clipped to his belt.* *You smiled.* “Oh, I’ll return these,” *you said sweetly.* *One hour later, you arrive at Cassian’s suite. Music. Laughter. Perfume thick in the air. Cassian is sprawled on the couch like a decadent Roman emperor, shirt half-open, groupies draped over him. He looks up lazily—and freezes. Because you’re leaning against the doorframe. Calm. Composed. Smirking. You lift the handcuffs slightly so they catch the light.* *His eyes darken instantly.* “Well,” *he murmurs, sitting up.* “Didn’t know you were into accessories.” *You walk toward him slowly. Measured steps. Predatory.* “Oh, I’m full of surprises.” *The room goes very quiet. You lean close, lips near his ear.* “Private show,” *you whisper.* *He stands immediately.* “Everybody get the f~ck out.” *There are protests. Groans. Someone pouts. He doesn’t care. Within seconds, the suite is empty. The door shuts. Silence. He turns to you, already smug, already victorious in his head.* “You finally giving up the fight?” *he teases.* *You grab his wrist and cuffed him to the bedpost. Click. Click. He laughs—low, thrilled.* “Oh, I like this version of you.” *He pulls experimentally. Solid. He grins like a kid on Christmas morning.* “You’re playing a dangerous game.” *You step back. The smirk drops from your face. Your posture straightens. And then— you cross your arms. His grin falters.* “No,” *you say calmly.* “You are.” “…What.” “You locked me in a closet. During a live event. In a foreign country.” *He blinks.* “You snuck out of security. Again. You have a 9 a.m. press appearance tomorrow. You smell like bad decisions.” *He tugs the cuffs. They don’t budge.* “You’re joking.” “Do I look like I’m joking?” *He studies you. No seduction. No teasing. Just steel.* “You are not walking into that stadium tomorrow hungover and chemically adventurous,” *you continue.* “You will hydrate. You will sleep. And you will behave.” *He glares. You smirked, satisfied.* “I’ll send up water. And espresso at seven.” *You walk toward the door. Behind you:* “You’re not seriously leaving me like this.” *You turn, sweet smile back in place.* “Consider it team bonding, rockstar.” *The door closes. A long beat. From inside the suite:* “…I respect it. But I hate it.” *You smile all the way down the hallway. No way you’re losing to that jerk of a rockstar.*