AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
|
A HELPING HAND
A Roleplay Brought to You By: |
Adrian Wolfe written by AJS Roleplaying |
Delilah (Lilah) Hayward written by Kita-san |
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A Helping Hand (AJS Roleplaying x Kita-san)
- Thread starter AJS Roleplaying
- Start date
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian listened intently as she laid out her story - calmly, clearly, with a level of vulnerability that felt far more valuable than any currency exchanged within the velvet shadows of Velour. He didn't interrupt, didn't comment, just let her words fill the space between them. What mattered more was that she was speaking now. And he knew exactly why. It was his own quiet disclosure earlier - just a sliver of truth, deliberate but unforced - that had prompted her openness. He smiled to himself, inwardly, with the practiced discretion of a man used to playing long games and subtle hands. She had taken the bait, not because it was manipulative, but because it was human. Real. He hadn't told her much, just enough to remind her that people like him, the ones who usually watched from the high windows of life, weren't untouchable. That they bled too, once. He had heard similar stories before. Countless, really. Some delivered with tears, some with rage, and others in numb, robotic detachment. But hers had landed differently. There was something sharper beneath her composure, a rawness that didn't ask to be pitied or fixed. And the way she responded to his quiet revelation - it wasn't sympathy. It was recognition.
Still, her final question had caught him off guard. It lingered uncomfortably, carving a slow burn into the edges of his conscience. He hadn't seen it coming, or rather, he hadn't expected her to aim that precisely. It wasn't the kind of question you could parry with charm or deflect with a joke. It was the kind that landed and stayed. He rose, pulling another thousand dollars from his money clip without fanfare, and set it down on the cushion between them with intent.
"Use that to buy something for you. Not for bills, not for college tuition—you."
He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. There were rules in this world, yes, but some moments didn't require decoding. She would understand, or not. That part wasn't up to him. As he moved to the curtain that marked the line between the private booth and the rest of Velour's curated illusion, he allowed himself one final glance - not of her, but of the scene itself. The hush, the low thrum of music, the ambient glow that made every face look softer, more mysterious. This place had always been about escape. For everyone.
"I hope to see you again. Just not here. Out in the real world. You have my number."
Then he was gone. Slipped through the veil and back into the machine that carried him - town car, driver, the city melting behind tinted glass. The world returned to its default mode: muted, polished, transactional. By the time he arrived at his penthouse, the city was deep into its nightly performance of light and silence. He removed his jacket, the weight of the night still hanging in the lining. In the dim kitchen, he poured himself a drink - something expensive, aged, meant to soothe men with too much time to think. He sat, sinking into the low leather of his sofa, glass in hand, staring out at the skyline that had once felt like a destination but now felt like wallpaper. Delilah's question returned, clear and unrelenting.
"When you lie awake at night in that nice house with all your bills paid and no one left to save… do you ever ask yourself what's left? Do you ever wonder if this is really it for you? You said you fight so you don't feel powerless. But power doesn't keep the dark out. Not really. So I want to know… What does winning look like for you, Adrian? Not in boardrooms. Not in strategy decks or PR headlines. I mean you. Alone. When no one's watching."
It had been a long time since anyone had asked him a question that didn't come with an agenda. A longer time still since someone had asked one that made him feel seen. Most people looked at Adrian and saw acquisition. Leverage. Access. They didn't ask about the nights. About what silence sounded like when you'd outmanoeuvred everything and everyone except yourself.
What did winning look like? Once, he would've had an answer. It would have been efficient and airtight - metrics, milestones, capital raised, empires built. But now? In the hush of the evening, surrounded by modern art he hadn't chosen and furniture no one ever used, the answer eluded him. Because the question wasn't about success. It was about peace. And if he was honest, brutally so, then no - power hadn't kept the dark out. Not really. It just lit up the corners for a while. He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. It swirled slowly, as if it too was reluctant to settle. Her words refused to leave him. Not because they hurt, but because they revealed something he hadn't admitted, not even to himself.
That somewhere along the way, he had mistaken movement for meaning. Control for purpose. That maybe, just maybe, winning had stopped being a destination and become a disguise. He took a slow sip and let the silence do its work. He didn't have an answer yet. But he knew the question mattered.
Still, her final question had caught him off guard. It lingered uncomfortably, carving a slow burn into the edges of his conscience. He hadn't seen it coming, or rather, he hadn't expected her to aim that precisely. It wasn't the kind of question you could parry with charm or deflect with a joke. It was the kind that landed and stayed. He rose, pulling another thousand dollars from his money clip without fanfare, and set it down on the cushion between them with intent.
"Use that to buy something for you. Not for bills, not for college tuition—you."
He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. There were rules in this world, yes, but some moments didn't require decoding. She would understand, or not. That part wasn't up to him. As he moved to the curtain that marked the line between the private booth and the rest of Velour's curated illusion, he allowed himself one final glance - not of her, but of the scene itself. The hush, the low thrum of music, the ambient glow that made every face look softer, more mysterious. This place had always been about escape. For everyone.
"I hope to see you again. Just not here. Out in the real world. You have my number."
Then he was gone. Slipped through the veil and back into the machine that carried him - town car, driver, the city melting behind tinted glass. The world returned to its default mode: muted, polished, transactional. By the time he arrived at his penthouse, the city was deep into its nightly performance of light and silence. He removed his jacket, the weight of the night still hanging in the lining. In the dim kitchen, he poured himself a drink - something expensive, aged, meant to soothe men with too much time to think. He sat, sinking into the low leather of his sofa, glass in hand, staring out at the skyline that had once felt like a destination but now felt like wallpaper. Delilah's question returned, clear and unrelenting.
"When you lie awake at night in that nice house with all your bills paid and no one left to save… do you ever ask yourself what's left? Do you ever wonder if this is really it for you? You said you fight so you don't feel powerless. But power doesn't keep the dark out. Not really. So I want to know… What does winning look like for you, Adrian? Not in boardrooms. Not in strategy decks or PR headlines. I mean you. Alone. When no one's watching."
It had been a long time since anyone had asked him a question that didn't come with an agenda. A longer time still since someone had asked one that made him feel seen. Most people looked at Adrian and saw acquisition. Leverage. Access. They didn't ask about the nights. About what silence sounded like when you'd outmanoeuvred everything and everyone except yourself.
What did winning look like? Once, he would've had an answer. It would have been efficient and airtight - metrics, milestones, capital raised, empires built. But now? In the hush of the evening, surrounded by modern art he hadn't chosen and furniture no one ever used, the answer eluded him. Because the question wasn't about success. It was about peace. And if he was honest, brutally so, then no - power hadn't kept the dark out. Not really. It just lit up the corners for a while. He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. It swirled slowly, as if it too was reluctant to settle. Her words refused to leave him. Not because they hurt, but because they revealed something he hadn't admitted, not even to himself.
That somewhere along the way, he had mistaken movement for meaning. Control for purpose. That maybe, just maybe, winning had stopped being a destination and become a disguise. He took a slow sip and let the silence do its work. He didn't have an answer yet. But he knew the question mattered.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah sat still long after Adrian disappeared behind the velvet curtain, the ambient hum of Velour rushing back in to fill the space he left behind.
She should've known he wouldn't answer. She did know. But that hadn't stopped her from asking.
That question—it had come from somewhere unguarded inside her, like muscle memory from a version of herself that hadn't yet learned how expensive honesty could be. The moment she said it, she'd regretted it. Not because it was too much, but because it had been real. And real things don't survive long in places like this.
Still, the way he'd looked at her afterward… that flicker of surprise, of pause—that had meant something. She was sure of it.
Now, though, her eyes drifted to the thin stack of crisp bills he'd left behind, the thousand-dollar offer laid out like a challenge.
Use that to buy something for you. Not for bills, not for college tuition—you.
She exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the money. It didn't feel like a tip. It wasn't a transaction, either—not in the way she was used to. It felt like a test. And Delilah hated tests. Because she was the girl who could always find a hundred better uses for a dollar than herself. Medical bills. Car insurance. Groceries. The phone bill.
Her mother had a doctor’s appointment next week. She knew that she needed money for that, she didn’t have the best medical insurance. Her mother wasn’t of age yet to qualify for anything either. There were many other things that the money could go to. She truly didn’t need to by herself anything even though she would love a new knife set and maybe a cute summer dress or tops. Then again who did she need to look cute for? No one at all.
But something in her chest refused to move toward the practical. Something in her wanted—needed—to believe he had meant it. That it wasn't pity money. That it wasn't a guilt offering or a buyout for her silence. He could've just left. He didn't owe her anything.
And yet.
She remembered the way he had spoken earlier—quiet, careful, not performative like most men with that kind of money. When he let something slip, something personal, it hadn't been a power play. It had felt… human. That scared her more than anything. She could handle men who wanted to own her story. But Adrian hadn't tried to own it. He'd just listened. And that made him dangerous. Because she had started to listen back.
Delilah folded the bills carefully, sliding them into her apron like a secret she didn't know how to keep. She knew what the smart thing was. The responsible thing. She'd been responsible her entire damn life, always choosing duty over desire, logic over longing.
But as she stepped into the early morning air outside Velour, the city buzzing like a restless confession around her, the question hung heavy in her chest:
Would she call him again? She told herself no.
She told herself he was a detour, not a direction. That this—whatever this was—wasn't a story that had a next chapter. But her hand, traitorous and slow, reached for her phone as she walked. No call. Not yet. But she saved his number. And she didn't delete it. That was the first lie she told herself that night. It wouldn't be the last.
A week passed. It didn't float by—it dragged, catching on every jagged edge of her life like fabric snagging on wire.
Monday was her mother's appointment.
Delilah had known what to expect: the long sighs from the nurse, the raised eyebrows from the doctor, and her mother's brittle, defensive jokes about "being a little pickled, not poisoned."
Her vitals were bad. Liver function worse. The doctor tried to look Delilah in the eye while giving instructions, but Delilah didn't need a lecture—she'd already memorized the dance: pills she'd have to remind her mother to take, diet changes her mother wouldn't follow, follow-up appointments they couldn't afford to miss.
Tuesday through Thursday was school.
The assignment dropped like a stone into already troubled waters:
Create a dish that tells your story. Layered flavors, multiple techniques, at least one component that pushes your current skill level.
Delilah stared at the syllabus like it had insulted her personally. Her story? In a dish? What did they want, a consommé of emotional trauma with a quenelle of codependency on the side?
She toyed with the idea of doing a deconstructed arroz con pollo, but elevated—saffron-infused rice crisped into a socarrat, sous-vide chicken thigh, crispy skin re-fried in rendered chorizo oil, garlic espuma. Nostalgia and survival, plated like luxury.
But every part of her was exhausted.
So on Friday, she did what she almost never let herself do. She took the afternoon off.
She walked downtown, let herself drift in and out of boutiques with exposed brick and overpriced water bottles on the counters. She bought a new outfit—simple, but flattering. A soft black halter top and jeans that made her legs look longer than they felt. Then, almost without guilt, she crossed the street into a specialty culinary shop and picked out a gleaming new set of chef's knives. Forged steel, perfectly balanced. They sang when she touched the blades together.
She told herself she needed them for school. That it was an investment. But if she was being honest? The outfit was for her. The knives were for her too. It was the first time she'd spent money like that in a long time and not immediately regretted it.
Her phone buzzed. Nothing urgent—just a notification from her school portal. But her thumb hovered over her contacts, frozen for a beat. Then she scrolled. Stopped at his name.
Mr. Wolfe.
She hit Call before she could think twice.
The line rang once. Twice…and just when she got ready to hand up he picked up the phone call.
“Oh…hello.” She said simply. She didn’t wait for him to say anything. “I just wanted to say thank you for the money. It was helpful even though you didn’t need to offer it to me. Surprisingly I am spending some of it on myself.” She added before she paused. She waiting on a corner to cross the street. “Downtown is so busy…” she muttered mostly to herself as she watched the cars speed by.
She should've known he wouldn't answer. She did know. But that hadn't stopped her from asking.
That question—it had come from somewhere unguarded inside her, like muscle memory from a version of herself that hadn't yet learned how expensive honesty could be. The moment she said it, she'd regretted it. Not because it was too much, but because it had been real. And real things don't survive long in places like this.
Still, the way he'd looked at her afterward… that flicker of surprise, of pause—that had meant something. She was sure of it.
Now, though, her eyes drifted to the thin stack of crisp bills he'd left behind, the thousand-dollar offer laid out like a challenge.
Use that to buy something for you. Not for bills, not for college tuition—you.
She exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the money. It didn't feel like a tip. It wasn't a transaction, either—not in the way she was used to. It felt like a test. And Delilah hated tests. Because she was the girl who could always find a hundred better uses for a dollar than herself. Medical bills. Car insurance. Groceries. The phone bill.
Her mother had a doctor’s appointment next week. She knew that she needed money for that, she didn’t have the best medical insurance. Her mother wasn’t of age yet to qualify for anything either. There were many other things that the money could go to. She truly didn’t need to by herself anything even though she would love a new knife set and maybe a cute summer dress or tops. Then again who did she need to look cute for? No one at all.
But something in her chest refused to move toward the practical. Something in her wanted—needed—to believe he had meant it. That it wasn't pity money. That it wasn't a guilt offering or a buyout for her silence. He could've just left. He didn't owe her anything.
And yet.
She remembered the way he had spoken earlier—quiet, careful, not performative like most men with that kind of money. When he let something slip, something personal, it hadn't been a power play. It had felt… human. That scared her more than anything. She could handle men who wanted to own her story. But Adrian hadn't tried to own it. He'd just listened. And that made him dangerous. Because she had started to listen back.
Delilah folded the bills carefully, sliding them into her apron like a secret she didn't know how to keep. She knew what the smart thing was. The responsible thing. She'd been responsible her entire damn life, always choosing duty over desire, logic over longing.
But as she stepped into the early morning air outside Velour, the city buzzing like a restless confession around her, the question hung heavy in her chest:
Would she call him again? She told herself no.
She told herself he was a detour, not a direction. That this—whatever this was—wasn't a story that had a next chapter. But her hand, traitorous and slow, reached for her phone as she walked. No call. Not yet. But she saved his number. And she didn't delete it. That was the first lie she told herself that night. It wouldn't be the last.
A week passed. It didn't float by—it dragged, catching on every jagged edge of her life like fabric snagging on wire.
Monday was her mother's appointment.
Delilah had known what to expect: the long sighs from the nurse, the raised eyebrows from the doctor, and her mother's brittle, defensive jokes about "being a little pickled, not poisoned."
Her vitals were bad. Liver function worse. The doctor tried to look Delilah in the eye while giving instructions, but Delilah didn't need a lecture—she'd already memorized the dance: pills she'd have to remind her mother to take, diet changes her mother wouldn't follow, follow-up appointments they couldn't afford to miss.
Tuesday through Thursday was school.
The assignment dropped like a stone into already troubled waters:
Create a dish that tells your story. Layered flavors, multiple techniques, at least one component that pushes your current skill level.
Delilah stared at the syllabus like it had insulted her personally. Her story? In a dish? What did they want, a consommé of emotional trauma with a quenelle of codependency on the side?
She toyed with the idea of doing a deconstructed arroz con pollo, but elevated—saffron-infused rice crisped into a socarrat, sous-vide chicken thigh, crispy skin re-fried in rendered chorizo oil, garlic espuma. Nostalgia and survival, plated like luxury.
But every part of her was exhausted.
So on Friday, she did what she almost never let herself do. She took the afternoon off.
She walked downtown, let herself drift in and out of boutiques with exposed brick and overpriced water bottles on the counters. She bought a new outfit—simple, but flattering. A soft black halter top and jeans that made her legs look longer than they felt. Then, almost without guilt, she crossed the street into a specialty culinary shop and picked out a gleaming new set of chef's knives. Forged steel, perfectly balanced. They sang when she touched the blades together.
She told herself she needed them for school. That it was an investment. But if she was being honest? The outfit was for her. The knives were for her too. It was the first time she'd spent money like that in a long time and not immediately regretted it.
Her phone buzzed. Nothing urgent—just a notification from her school portal. But her thumb hovered over her contacts, frozen for a beat. Then she scrolled. Stopped at his name.
Mr. Wolfe.
She hit Call before she could think twice.
The line rang once. Twice…and just when she got ready to hand up he picked up the phone call.
“Oh…hello.” She said simply. She didn’t wait for him to say anything. “I just wanted to say thank you for the money. It was helpful even though you didn’t need to offer it to me. Surprisingly I am spending some of it on myself.” She added before she paused. She waiting on a corner to cross the street. “Downtown is so busy…” she muttered mostly to herself as she watched the cars speed by.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian sat in his downtown office, a quiet oasis amidst the constant hum of the city below. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the view like a moving painting: taxis weaving through traffic, office workers hurrying past each other in tailored coats, the occasional food cart exhaling steam into the crisp evening air. His inbox blinked impatiently in the corner of his screen, but his attention drifted elsewhere - somewhere quieter, more human.
Then the phone rang. Normally, he wouldn't have given it much notice. He got dozens of calls a day - clients, colleagues, assistants, people with problems they hoped he could solve. Most of them he ignored until his calendar told him it was time to care. But this time, something pulled his gaze to the caller ID.
Delilah.
His chest stirred with something unexpected, subtle but undeniable. A shift in breath. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. The smallest smile. He picked up without hesitation.
"I just wanted to say thank you for the money. It was helpful even though you didn't need to offer it to me. Surprisingly I am spending some of it on myself."
The words hit him with a quiet weight. Not because of their content - he had resources far beyond what he'd sent her, and the gesture hadn't cost him much in terms of money. But the sentiment behind it - her acknowledging it, her accepting it - felt more intimate than he had anticipated. She was spending some of it on herself. He had told her to. Encouraged her, even. But he hadn't truly expected her to follow through. Delilah didn't strike him as someone used to indulgence. More often than not, women like her - strong, private, cautious - channelled their energy into survival rather than self-care. They paid the bills. They scraped by. They kept receipts, made lists, skipped luxuries. Not because they weren't deserving, but because no one had ever reminded them that they were.
So to hear her say she'd spent the money on herself, it told him something. Not just that she was listening to him, but that some part of her, however small, had decided to trust him. That pleased him. And surprised him. Not because it gave him a sense of control - though he was no stranger to the satisfaction of influence - but because it felt like something else entirely. Something personal. He'd spent his adult life mastering the art of strategy. Getting into people's heads was how he won - deals, negotiations, even personal relationships when he chose to engage with them. But this wasn't the same. It wasn't about leverage. It wasn't about outcome. It was about her. And for reasons he hadn't fully unpacked yet, that distinction mattered more than he cared to admit.
"Downtown is so busy…"
He barely registered the words before his mind started working. It was almost dinner time. People were packing into restaurants, leaning against bar counters, pulling coats tighter against the early evening breeze. Her voice - those few simple words - wasn't just an observation. It was a breadcrumb. And Adrian never ignored breadcrumbs. An idea struck him like a well-timed chord.
"Meet me at Salerntino in 30 minutes."
He said it without preamble, then hung up just as quickly. Not out of rudeness - he wasn't in the business of being careless - but because he knew how people like Delilah operated. Give her too much space, too much time to overthink, and she'd talk herself out of it. Give her an out, and she'd take it. He didn't want to leave room for refusal - not because he assumed she'd say no, but because he wanted her to say yes without needing to be convinced.
If she came, it would mean something.
If she didn't, that would mean something too.
He called for his car, not wasting a moment. By the time he arrived at Salerntino, the sky had begun to settle into twilight. The restaurant's familiar stone façade and brass accents gleamed under the glow of early evening lights. A soft murmur of clinking glasses and warm laughter drifted out every time the door opened. Salerntino had always been one of his go-to places - not flashy, not loud, but known for its discretion and excellent food. He was on a first-name basis with the staff, and they understood what it meant when he requested his table. He gave the hostess Delilah's name, making sure they'd bring her straight over if she arrived. He didn't want her lingering awkwardly at the front or second-guessing whether she was welcome.
And then he waited. No phone. No laptop. No distracted tapping at the screen or pretending to skim emails he had no intention of answering. Just him. Sitting quietly. Letting the idea of her arrival take up space in his thoughts. It wasn't like him to hope for something like this. He didn't do chance meetings or casual invitations. Everything he planned served a purpose. But with Delilah, he was beginning to discover a different kind of purpose - less about outcome, more about connection. A quiet sort of wanting that didn't stem from ego, or victory, or control.
She was unpredictable. Guarded. The kind of woman who didn't let people in easily. That fascinated him. Because he was used to finding people easy to read, easy to bend, easy to push toward the outcome he wanted. Delilah didn't move like that. She didn't yield on command. And maybe that was the reason he was sitting there now, waiting—not because he needed her to say yes, but because if she did, it would be on her terms. Not a reaction, but a choice.
A choice to show up. A choice to let him in. Even just a little. He could live with that. More than that - he wanted to.
Then the phone rang. Normally, he wouldn't have given it much notice. He got dozens of calls a day - clients, colleagues, assistants, people with problems they hoped he could solve. Most of them he ignored until his calendar told him it was time to care. But this time, something pulled his gaze to the caller ID.
Delilah.
His chest stirred with something unexpected, subtle but undeniable. A shift in breath. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. The smallest smile. He picked up without hesitation.
"I just wanted to say thank you for the money. It was helpful even though you didn't need to offer it to me. Surprisingly I am spending some of it on myself."
The words hit him with a quiet weight. Not because of their content - he had resources far beyond what he'd sent her, and the gesture hadn't cost him much in terms of money. But the sentiment behind it - her acknowledging it, her accepting it - felt more intimate than he had anticipated. She was spending some of it on herself. He had told her to. Encouraged her, even. But he hadn't truly expected her to follow through. Delilah didn't strike him as someone used to indulgence. More often than not, women like her - strong, private, cautious - channelled their energy into survival rather than self-care. They paid the bills. They scraped by. They kept receipts, made lists, skipped luxuries. Not because they weren't deserving, but because no one had ever reminded them that they were.
So to hear her say she'd spent the money on herself, it told him something. Not just that she was listening to him, but that some part of her, however small, had decided to trust him. That pleased him. And surprised him. Not because it gave him a sense of control - though he was no stranger to the satisfaction of influence - but because it felt like something else entirely. Something personal. He'd spent his adult life mastering the art of strategy. Getting into people's heads was how he won - deals, negotiations, even personal relationships when he chose to engage with them. But this wasn't the same. It wasn't about leverage. It wasn't about outcome. It was about her. And for reasons he hadn't fully unpacked yet, that distinction mattered more than he cared to admit.
"Downtown is so busy…"
He barely registered the words before his mind started working. It was almost dinner time. People were packing into restaurants, leaning against bar counters, pulling coats tighter against the early evening breeze. Her voice - those few simple words - wasn't just an observation. It was a breadcrumb. And Adrian never ignored breadcrumbs. An idea struck him like a well-timed chord.
"Meet me at Salerntino in 30 minutes."
He said it without preamble, then hung up just as quickly. Not out of rudeness - he wasn't in the business of being careless - but because he knew how people like Delilah operated. Give her too much space, too much time to overthink, and she'd talk herself out of it. Give her an out, and she'd take it. He didn't want to leave room for refusal - not because he assumed she'd say no, but because he wanted her to say yes without needing to be convinced.
If she came, it would mean something.
If she didn't, that would mean something too.
He called for his car, not wasting a moment. By the time he arrived at Salerntino, the sky had begun to settle into twilight. The restaurant's familiar stone façade and brass accents gleamed under the glow of early evening lights. A soft murmur of clinking glasses and warm laughter drifted out every time the door opened. Salerntino had always been one of his go-to places - not flashy, not loud, but known for its discretion and excellent food. He was on a first-name basis with the staff, and they understood what it meant when he requested his table. He gave the hostess Delilah's name, making sure they'd bring her straight over if she arrived. He didn't want her lingering awkwardly at the front or second-guessing whether she was welcome.
And then he waited. No phone. No laptop. No distracted tapping at the screen or pretending to skim emails he had no intention of answering. Just him. Sitting quietly. Letting the idea of her arrival take up space in his thoughts. It wasn't like him to hope for something like this. He didn't do chance meetings or casual invitations. Everything he planned served a purpose. But with Delilah, he was beginning to discover a different kind of purpose - less about outcome, more about connection. A quiet sort of wanting that didn't stem from ego, or victory, or control.
She was unpredictable. Guarded. The kind of woman who didn't let people in easily. That fascinated him. Because he was used to finding people easy to read, easy to bend, easy to push toward the outcome he wanted. Delilah didn't move like that. She didn't yield on command. And maybe that was the reason he was sitting there now, waiting—not because he needed her to say yes, but because if she did, it would be on her terms. Not a reaction, but a choice.
A choice to show up. A choice to let him in. Even just a little. He could live with that. More than that - he wanted to.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah stared at the screen in her hand like it had just rolled its eyes at her.
Meet me at Salerntino in 30 minutes.
Then—click. That was it. No follow-up, no "if you want to." Just a directive, clean and confident, like he was used to people obeying him the moment he opened his mouth.
She blinked once, her brow pulling in.
Seriously?
She scoffed under her breath. Classic Adrian. All power moves and timing. Like this was chess and she was just the next piece he'd nudged forward. The gall of it almost made her laugh.
Almost.
She turned her face up toward the evening sky, letting the wind brush against her cheek, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone. She could already hear what her friends would say—Don't let that man snap his fingers and expect you to show up like it's some kind of test. But even as she thought it, she felt the contradiction already moving in her. Because it didn't feel like a test. Not really. It wasn't smug. It wasn't arrogant. It was… sure. Like he knew her. Not in that annoying, presumptuous way people who barely listened pretended they did. But in a way that said:
I know you'll come—because you want to.
Not because you're chasing anything. Not because you're desperate. But because this? This is yours to choose. That realization hit harder than she wanted to admit. It wasn't cocky. It was clean. Intentional.
“Maybe this isn’t a game.” she glanced one more time at her cellphone. She stood still for a long beat on the edge of the downtown sidewalk, watching strangers pass her by in waves of perfume, cologne, cigarette smoke and takeout bags. Then she tucked her phone into her pocket and started walking. She didn't rush. But she didn't hesitate either.
The wind cut through her faux leather jacket, and the sidewalk stretched wide beneath her heeled boots. Her reflection caught in storefront glass—sharp-lined soft, eyes bright with long lashes, lips coated with cherry scented lip oil, hair pulled back into a loose pony tail that said functional, not flirty. Not the kind of look that said dinner at Salerntino—but then again, she wasn't showing up to impress. She adjusted the crop t shirt she was wearing and gave herself one more look over in the glass window. Her high wasted jeans fit snuggly and looked nice with a belt and boots.
“Oh well.” She rolled her eyes at how much she was stressing over how she looked. She told herself not to worry and kept walking. She was showing up because she wanted to know why he'd asked. Still, as she got closer, her thoughts ran tight and fast.
What if this meant more than it should?
What if I look like I want this much?
What if he is sitting there expecting something I can’t—or won’t—give?
She pressed all those voices down. Pushed them into her chest and smoothed her face into neutral calm. On the outside, she looked untouched by nerves, like she'd done this a dozen times before. But inside, her heartbeat was steady and stubborn—just loud enough to remind her this wasn't just dinner. This was something.
At the door, the warm light spilling out from Salerntino made her blink once, but she stepped inside.
The hostess met her with a bright smile. "You're here for Adrian?” Delilah gave a subtle nod. "Yeah." The name didn't feel strange in her mouth. But it did feel… heavier than it had an hour ago.
She followed the hostess through soft lamplight and quiet clinks of glassware, ignoring the small glances of curious patrons. And then she saw him.
Adrian. No phone in hand. No show. Just sitting. Waiting. Like this wasn't a power move at all. And that's when it really landed. He hadn't invited her here to prove anything. He wasn't trying to win.
She took a slow breath, then approached, her eyes meeting his with the cool poise she'd perfected over the years. One brow lifted slightly. "You always this dramatic with your dinner invitations?" she asked, slipping into the seat across from him without waiting for a reply. No smile. But her voice had that dry edge, playful but firm.
Meet me at Salerntino in 30 minutes.
Then—click. That was it. No follow-up, no "if you want to." Just a directive, clean and confident, like he was used to people obeying him the moment he opened his mouth.
She blinked once, her brow pulling in.
Seriously?
She scoffed under her breath. Classic Adrian. All power moves and timing. Like this was chess and she was just the next piece he'd nudged forward. The gall of it almost made her laugh.
Almost.
She turned her face up toward the evening sky, letting the wind brush against her cheek, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone. She could already hear what her friends would say—Don't let that man snap his fingers and expect you to show up like it's some kind of test. But even as she thought it, she felt the contradiction already moving in her. Because it didn't feel like a test. Not really. It wasn't smug. It wasn't arrogant. It was… sure. Like he knew her. Not in that annoying, presumptuous way people who barely listened pretended they did. But in a way that said:
I know you'll come—because you want to.
Not because you're chasing anything. Not because you're desperate. But because this? This is yours to choose. That realization hit harder than she wanted to admit. It wasn't cocky. It was clean. Intentional.
“Maybe this isn’t a game.” she glanced one more time at her cellphone. She stood still for a long beat on the edge of the downtown sidewalk, watching strangers pass her by in waves of perfume, cologne, cigarette smoke and takeout bags. Then she tucked her phone into her pocket and started walking. She didn't rush. But she didn't hesitate either.
The wind cut through her faux leather jacket, and the sidewalk stretched wide beneath her heeled boots. Her reflection caught in storefront glass—sharp-lined soft, eyes bright with long lashes, lips coated with cherry scented lip oil, hair pulled back into a loose pony tail that said functional, not flirty. Not the kind of look that said dinner at Salerntino—but then again, she wasn't showing up to impress. She adjusted the crop t shirt she was wearing and gave herself one more look over in the glass window. Her high wasted jeans fit snuggly and looked nice with a belt and boots.
“Oh well.” She rolled her eyes at how much she was stressing over how she looked. She told herself not to worry and kept walking. She was showing up because she wanted to know why he'd asked. Still, as she got closer, her thoughts ran tight and fast.
What if this meant more than it should?
What if I look like I want this much?
What if he is sitting there expecting something I can’t—or won’t—give?
She pressed all those voices down. Pushed them into her chest and smoothed her face into neutral calm. On the outside, she looked untouched by nerves, like she'd done this a dozen times before. But inside, her heartbeat was steady and stubborn—just loud enough to remind her this wasn't just dinner. This was something.
At the door, the warm light spilling out from Salerntino made her blink once, but she stepped inside.
The hostess met her with a bright smile. "You're here for Adrian?” Delilah gave a subtle nod. "Yeah." The name didn't feel strange in her mouth. But it did feel… heavier than it had an hour ago.
She followed the hostess through soft lamplight and quiet clinks of glassware, ignoring the small glances of curious patrons. And then she saw him.
Adrian. No phone in hand. No show. Just sitting. Waiting. Like this wasn't a power move at all. And that's when it really landed. He hadn't invited her here to prove anything. He wasn't trying to win.
She took a slow breath, then approached, her eyes meeting his with the cool poise she'd perfected over the years. One brow lifted slightly. "You always this dramatic with your dinner invitations?" she asked, slipping into the seat across from him without waiting for a reply. No smile. But her voice had that dry edge, playful but firm.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian noticed Delilah before she caught sight of him. It was one of the subtle advantages of this particular table at Salerntino - tucked into the crook of the back wall, shielded just enough by the velvet panelled booth and the low ambient lighting. From here, he could observe others in motion without being easily seen himself, an arrangement he appreciated more than he'd care to admit. The restaurant was upscale without being ostentatious, and the clientele generally too absorbed in themselves to notice him. But from his vantage point, he noticed everything.
He saw her cross the room. There was something about her gait, measured and unhurried, that seemed at odds with the version of her he'd first encountered a week ago. There had been a restless tension in her then - a certain eagerness wrapped in careful performance. Now, she moved like someone who had grown used to being observed and had, perhaps, learned how to weaponize the silence between steps.
By the time she arrived at his table, he was already looking up. What she received in return was rare - a small, almost imperceptible smile. The kind of smile Adrian reserved for people who had earned their way past his indifference. It wasn't approval, exactly. More a gesture of recognition.
"Only with those that do not need time to overthink an invitation."
The words slipped from his mouth with a measured cadence, deliberate and unhurried. He let his gaze move over her, cataloguing the details of her outfit with a kind of quiet satisfaction. What she wore tonight wasn't loud or extravagant. It wasn't trying to be seductive, and it didn't scream for attention. It simply was - elegant in its understatement, in its confidence.
"That outfit suits you much better than that costume you wear in Velour."
There was no malice in his tone, just a blunt honesty that left no room for misinterpretation. The version of her that adorned herself in synthetic shimmer and theatrical lashes behind the red-curtained threshold of Velour had always felt like a mask to him. This, however - what stood in front of him now - was closer to her centre. There was still an element of curation, yes. Everyone curated. But this choice? It had weight. It hinted at someone who no longer needed to dazzle just to be taken seriously.
He turned his attention to the menu, eyes scanning across its meticulous offerings with a mixture of interest and strategy. He didn't ask her what she wanted. Not because he didn't care, but because he already had a sense of her palate. He'd been paying attention longer than she probably realized. A full plate would be presumptive. Samplers were better - flexible, exploratory. They offered conversation without the commitment of a single large dish, and they allowed for something more telling: what she left unfinished. He ordered an assortment - small plates designed to graze through rather than devour. The kind of selection that would invite commentary and reflection. Food, in Adrian's mind, was one of the few things in life that revealed people without their noticing. Their preferences. Their hesitations. Their contradictions.
His eyes found hers again, this time more directly. There was no flicker of distraction now, no casual scanning of the room, no feigned indifference. She had his attention, fully and without pretence.
"Tell me what you think of this place. As a budding culinary student."
He let the question hang in the air, open-ended but purposeful. It wasn't idle chatter. Adrian didn't believe in asking questions he didn't want answered. Beneath the inquiry was an invitation - not just for her opinion on the food or the décor, but for something deeper. A glimpse into how she thought, how she evaluated, how she positioned herself in relation to something that mattered to her. He wanted to see whether her ambition extended beyond aesthetics - whether there was substance beneath the performance. Not just the memorized notes of a girl trying to sound competent, but the raw, unfiltered perspective of someone who belonged in a space like this. He wondered whether she would be honest in her assessment, or whether she'd offer the kind of shallow praise she might think he expected. Whether she'd trust him enough to disagree.
Adrian didn't believe in small talk. Every conversation, to him, was a kind of excavation. He was patient, methodical, unyielding in his curiosity. And tonight, he wanted more than polite dialogue. He wanted to see if Delilah could move past the carefully constructed version of herself and offer something real. Something unscripted. If not, he'd know. But if she could - if she chose to - then this evening might prove to be far more interesting than he'd initially anticipated. He leaned back slightly, giving her space to speak but not escape. There was a quiet intensity in the way he watched her now - not quite challenging, but certainly expectant. He'd created the setting, laid out the choices, and asked the question. Now, he waited.
He saw her cross the room. There was something about her gait, measured and unhurried, that seemed at odds with the version of her he'd first encountered a week ago. There had been a restless tension in her then - a certain eagerness wrapped in careful performance. Now, she moved like someone who had grown used to being observed and had, perhaps, learned how to weaponize the silence between steps.
By the time she arrived at his table, he was already looking up. What she received in return was rare - a small, almost imperceptible smile. The kind of smile Adrian reserved for people who had earned their way past his indifference. It wasn't approval, exactly. More a gesture of recognition.
"Only with those that do not need time to overthink an invitation."
The words slipped from his mouth with a measured cadence, deliberate and unhurried. He let his gaze move over her, cataloguing the details of her outfit with a kind of quiet satisfaction. What she wore tonight wasn't loud or extravagant. It wasn't trying to be seductive, and it didn't scream for attention. It simply was - elegant in its understatement, in its confidence.
"That outfit suits you much better than that costume you wear in Velour."
There was no malice in his tone, just a blunt honesty that left no room for misinterpretation. The version of her that adorned herself in synthetic shimmer and theatrical lashes behind the red-curtained threshold of Velour had always felt like a mask to him. This, however - what stood in front of him now - was closer to her centre. There was still an element of curation, yes. Everyone curated. But this choice? It had weight. It hinted at someone who no longer needed to dazzle just to be taken seriously.
He turned his attention to the menu, eyes scanning across its meticulous offerings with a mixture of interest and strategy. He didn't ask her what she wanted. Not because he didn't care, but because he already had a sense of her palate. He'd been paying attention longer than she probably realized. A full plate would be presumptive. Samplers were better - flexible, exploratory. They offered conversation without the commitment of a single large dish, and they allowed for something more telling: what she left unfinished. He ordered an assortment - small plates designed to graze through rather than devour. The kind of selection that would invite commentary and reflection. Food, in Adrian's mind, was one of the few things in life that revealed people without their noticing. Their preferences. Their hesitations. Their contradictions.
His eyes found hers again, this time more directly. There was no flicker of distraction now, no casual scanning of the room, no feigned indifference. She had his attention, fully and without pretence.
"Tell me what you think of this place. As a budding culinary student."
He let the question hang in the air, open-ended but purposeful. It wasn't idle chatter. Adrian didn't believe in asking questions he didn't want answered. Beneath the inquiry was an invitation - not just for her opinion on the food or the décor, but for something deeper. A glimpse into how she thought, how she evaluated, how she positioned herself in relation to something that mattered to her. He wanted to see whether her ambition extended beyond aesthetics - whether there was substance beneath the performance. Not just the memorized notes of a girl trying to sound competent, but the raw, unfiltered perspective of someone who belonged in a space like this. He wondered whether she would be honest in her assessment, or whether she'd offer the kind of shallow praise she might think he expected. Whether she'd trust him enough to disagree.
Adrian didn't believe in small talk. Every conversation, to him, was a kind of excavation. He was patient, methodical, unyielding in his curiosity. And tonight, he wanted more than polite dialogue. He wanted to see if Delilah could move past the carefully constructed version of herself and offer something real. Something unscripted. If not, he'd know. But if she could - if she chose to - then this evening might prove to be far more interesting than he'd initially anticipated. He leaned back slightly, giving her space to speak but not escape. There was a quiet intensity in the way he watched her now - not quite challenging, but certainly expectant. He'd created the setting, laid out the choices, and asked the question. Now, he waited.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah rolled her eyes—sharp, unbothered, and unapologetically unimpressed.
"You talk like I'm two people. Do you think I’m hiding something?"Her tone wasn't defensive, exactly. It was measured, firm. The kind of response that didn't bite, but also didn't care to be softened for his comfort.
She let her eyes wander the space around them. Salerntino had the kind of interior that made you lower your voice without being told to. Ambient lighting. Curated playlists. Tables spaced just far enough to feel expensive. But the longer she sat with it, the more she saw the pattern under the polish.
"It's nice," she said finally. "But it's trying too hard. Every plate looks like it's begging for someone to photograph it. And the menu reads like it was built for people who want to feel adventurous without ever risking something unfamiliar."
There was no performance in her voice. No effort to impress. Just a plain assessment, the way she'd been trained to give in kitchens—no garnish, no fluff. Her fingers idly smoothed the edge of the linen napkin, but her posture stayed upright, guarded.
She met Adrian's gaze again, and this time she didn't blink. Her deep chocolate brown eyes were soft, her features were naturally soft which made her look more innocent than she really was.
Whatever space he'd tried to give her—emotional, conversational—she didn't mistake it for generosity. She saw the way he watched, the way he waited. He was digging for something. He always was. But she didn't trust what he'd do with it if she gave him too much. Still, she didn't look away.
"I get why people like this place," she said. "It makes them feel like they're part of something curated. Important, maybe. But for people who cook, for people who actually get their hands in the mess—it's too clean." Inside, she couldn't quite settle the question that had been tapping at the edge of her thoughts since the moment she'd seen him tonight: Why her?
Adrian had eyes like a blueprint, always measuring. She could feel him trying to place her—frame her into something. But she hadn't given him the full picture. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Still, she wasn't afraid of being seen. She'd learned how to be looked at without giving herself away. And if he wanted answers, he wasn't going to get them just by staring. So she stared back. Not defiant. Not open. Just steady.
"You want a review, there it is," she said plainly. "If you want something else, you'll need to be more specific."
Since she had answered his questions he figured he might answer one of hers. Her eyes stayed on him as she decided on wha to ask him. She noticed how he was leaning back like he had time to spare, like he wasn't doing anything more than listening. But she knew better. Adrian didn't listen the way most people did. He absorbed. Filed things away. Waited for the right angle.
She leaned in slightly—not to close the space, but to cut through it.
"So," she said, voice low but flat, "do you finally have an answer to my question from the other night at Velour? You really just up a left without even attempting to answer.”
There was no smile on her face. No tilt of the head, no teasing cadence. She said it like someone following up on a debt—like she hadn't forgotten, and didn't expect he had either.
Velour felt far away now, but the memory of that night hadn't faded. She'd asked him something while sitting at his booth, something that she knew would hit deeper than any surface level question. He had some time to think it over, at least that’s what she assumed.
Delilah wasn't the type to chase people for clarity. But she also wasn't the type to forget when something important went unanswered.
"I figure," she added, tone cool, "you've had more than enough time to think about it." Before she could say anything else her phone began to ring. It caught her off guard but her surprised expression instantly turned into a soft glare when she realized it was her mother calling.
“Excuse me.” She said to Adrian before answering the phone. She had turned her back slightly towards him. “Hello.” She said simply. “Lilah, my sweet girl. Where are you?” Her mother asked. Lilah was a nickname she use to love but now she hated it. Her mother would only call her that when she wanted something. “I’m downtown. Why?” “Downtown? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Look I need some money. Can you give your mom some money please?” The woman asked. The sweetness in her voice made Delilah sick.
“For what?” She asked dryly. She knew exactly wha the money was for. “I’m going out with some friends. Where do you keep the money?” Delilah could hear her mother rummaging through items in the house. The dark haired woman sighed and pinched the e bridge of her nose. “I’ll give you money. Just…stay home tonight.” “What? And miss out on my fun? You’re downtown probably on a date or something. Don’t be unfair. Give me something.”
Delilah didn’t have time for the back and forth. She didn’t want to waste money on her mother’s addiction. “No money.” She said simply before hanging up the phone. She faced Adrian. “Sorry…about that.” Delilah didn’t like talking about her mother so she was hoping he wouldn’t ask any questions about her.
"You talk like I'm two people. Do you think I’m hiding something?"Her tone wasn't defensive, exactly. It was measured, firm. The kind of response that didn't bite, but also didn't care to be softened for his comfort.
She let her eyes wander the space around them. Salerntino had the kind of interior that made you lower your voice without being told to. Ambient lighting. Curated playlists. Tables spaced just far enough to feel expensive. But the longer she sat with it, the more she saw the pattern under the polish.
"It's nice," she said finally. "But it's trying too hard. Every plate looks like it's begging for someone to photograph it. And the menu reads like it was built for people who want to feel adventurous without ever risking something unfamiliar."
There was no performance in her voice. No effort to impress. Just a plain assessment, the way she'd been trained to give in kitchens—no garnish, no fluff. Her fingers idly smoothed the edge of the linen napkin, but her posture stayed upright, guarded.
She met Adrian's gaze again, and this time she didn't blink. Her deep chocolate brown eyes were soft, her features were naturally soft which made her look more innocent than she really was.
Whatever space he'd tried to give her—emotional, conversational—she didn't mistake it for generosity. She saw the way he watched, the way he waited. He was digging for something. He always was. But she didn't trust what he'd do with it if she gave him too much. Still, she didn't look away.
"I get why people like this place," she said. "It makes them feel like they're part of something curated. Important, maybe. But for people who cook, for people who actually get their hands in the mess—it's too clean." Inside, she couldn't quite settle the question that had been tapping at the edge of her thoughts since the moment she'd seen him tonight: Why her?
Adrian had eyes like a blueprint, always measuring. She could feel him trying to place her—frame her into something. But she hadn't given him the full picture. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Still, she wasn't afraid of being seen. She'd learned how to be looked at without giving herself away. And if he wanted answers, he wasn't going to get them just by staring. So she stared back. Not defiant. Not open. Just steady.
"You want a review, there it is," she said plainly. "If you want something else, you'll need to be more specific."
Since she had answered his questions he figured he might answer one of hers. Her eyes stayed on him as she decided on wha to ask him. She noticed how he was leaning back like he had time to spare, like he wasn't doing anything more than listening. But she knew better. Adrian didn't listen the way most people did. He absorbed. Filed things away. Waited for the right angle.
She leaned in slightly—not to close the space, but to cut through it.
"So," she said, voice low but flat, "do you finally have an answer to my question from the other night at Velour? You really just up a left without even attempting to answer.”
There was no smile on her face. No tilt of the head, no teasing cadence. She said it like someone following up on a debt—like she hadn't forgotten, and didn't expect he had either.
Velour felt far away now, but the memory of that night hadn't faded. She'd asked him something while sitting at his booth, something that she knew would hit deeper than any surface level question. He had some time to think it over, at least that’s what she assumed.
Delilah wasn't the type to chase people for clarity. But she also wasn't the type to forget when something important went unanswered.
"I figure," she added, tone cool, "you've had more than enough time to think about it." Before she could say anything else her phone began to ring. It caught her off guard but her surprised expression instantly turned into a soft glare when she realized it was her mother calling.
“Excuse me.” She said to Adrian before answering the phone. She had turned her back slightly towards him. “Hello.” She said simply. “Lilah, my sweet girl. Where are you?” Her mother asked. Lilah was a nickname she use to love but now she hated it. Her mother would only call her that when she wanted something. “I’m downtown. Why?” “Downtown? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Look I need some money. Can you give your mom some money please?” The woman asked. The sweetness in her voice made Delilah sick.
“For what?” She asked dryly. She knew exactly wha the money was for. “I’m going out with some friends. Where do you keep the money?” Delilah could hear her mother rummaging through items in the house. The dark haired woman sighed and pinched the e bridge of her nose. “I’ll give you money. Just…stay home tonight.” “What? And miss out on my fun? You’re downtown probably on a date or something. Don’t be unfair. Give me something.”
Delilah didn’t have time for the back and forth. She didn’t want to waste money on her mother’s addiction. “No money.” She said simply before hanging up the phone. She faced Adrian. “Sorry…about that.” Delilah didn’t like talking about her mother so she was hoping he wouldn’t ask any questions about her.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Her review of Salerntino's was... very much her. Sharp, insightful, unsparing in the way only someone with a true eye for detail - and the nerve to say it out loud - could be. It read with the same rhythm she spoke with: confident, deliberate, unapologetically intelligent. Despite the relatively short time he'd known her, Adrian recognized the cadence of her thoughts more clearly than he'd expected. The dry wit tucked between observations. The long view she took even of small things, as though every minor moment still needed to earn its place.
Yes. Very her.
It hadn't taken long for him to realize she was, in many ways, a reflection. A younger iteration of himself, still willing to question the shape of the road ahead but moving forward anyway. Just fifteen years his junior, but already walking a path that mirrored the one he'd carved through ambition, necessity, and instinct. It was disarming. Not because she reminded him of who he used to be - but because she made him consider who he might still become.
And then there it was again. That same question.
"Do you finally have an answer to my question from the other night at Velour? You really just up and left without even attempting to answer."
Adrian paused, her words echoing in his mind with more weight than they probably should have carried. People didn't usually ask him things like that - at least, not twice. Once was usually enough to be met with a change of subject, or a look that discouraged further probing. Most didn't have the interest, or the courage, to try a second time. And those who did? Well, they didn't tend to stay in his life for long. She hadn't let it drop. That unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He blinked slowly, not out of confusion, but calculation. He gave her a long, measured look—one that wasn't intended to intimidate, but to buy time. Time to decide whether this particular line of questioning was worth the cost of honesty. Whether Delilah had earned that kind of access.
"'Do I finally have an answer?'" he repeated in his mind, the question lingering like a key pressed into his hand with no instructions on what it unlocked. When he spoke, his voice was low but steady, as though he were drawing the words out from a deeper place than usual.
"Nobody asks, really, about my personal life," he began, eyes settling somewhere over her shoulder, unseeing. "Not if you exclude the gossip page reporters. And even then, they're not interested in the real story - just the headlines. The optics. The scraps. As long as they get their bite, they don't care where it came from."
He paused, mouth curving into something that might have been a smile if there'd been any warmth in it.
"Winning is... winning," he went on. "It's a strange thing to say out loud, but it's true. By the usual metrics, I've already won. I could walk away from all of this tomorrow - sell off the assets, close the chapters, erase the digital trail - and spend the rest of my life hopping between countries, waking up in new cities, ordering breakfast in different languages. I wouldn't need to work another day. Not ever."
His fingers tapped once against the table, a faint, subconscious gesture.
"But then what?" he asked, more to himself than to her. "What would that make me? A man who climbed the mountain only to find out he didn't like the view?"
He leaned back slightly, letting the question linger.
"As for what it looks like for me now... I'm still figuring that out," he admitted. "Only recently, maybe the past year or so, I've come to terms with the fact that the machine I've built can run without me. That I don't have to control every piece, every hour, every fire. And that realization..." He hesitated. "That realization changes everything. Or at least, it should."
He stopped there, letting the silence do what words couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't have more to say - he did. In fact, more thoughts were surfacing with each breath, ideas long buried under layers of performance and productivity. But he held them back, instinctively. Not out of mistrust, but self-preservation. Some truths weren't ready to be aired just yet. Some revelations needed to settle in his own mind before they could be offered to someone else.
Still, something had shifted. Her question had unlocked a door he hadn't realized was closed, let alone locked. And behind it, something quietly stirring. Something closer to honesty than he usually allowed himself. He met her gaze again, more grounded this time, and while he said nothing more, the message was clear enough. She'd asked him twice - and this time, he'd answered. At least, as much as he could. For now.
Yes. Very her.
It hadn't taken long for him to realize she was, in many ways, a reflection. A younger iteration of himself, still willing to question the shape of the road ahead but moving forward anyway. Just fifteen years his junior, but already walking a path that mirrored the one he'd carved through ambition, necessity, and instinct. It was disarming. Not because she reminded him of who he used to be - but because she made him consider who he might still become.
And then there it was again. That same question.
"Do you finally have an answer to my question from the other night at Velour? You really just up and left without even attempting to answer."
Adrian paused, her words echoing in his mind with more weight than they probably should have carried. People didn't usually ask him things like that - at least, not twice. Once was usually enough to be met with a change of subject, or a look that discouraged further probing. Most didn't have the interest, or the courage, to try a second time. And those who did? Well, they didn't tend to stay in his life for long. She hadn't let it drop. That unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He blinked slowly, not out of confusion, but calculation. He gave her a long, measured look—one that wasn't intended to intimidate, but to buy time. Time to decide whether this particular line of questioning was worth the cost of honesty. Whether Delilah had earned that kind of access.
"'Do I finally have an answer?'" he repeated in his mind, the question lingering like a key pressed into his hand with no instructions on what it unlocked. When he spoke, his voice was low but steady, as though he were drawing the words out from a deeper place than usual.
"Nobody asks, really, about my personal life," he began, eyes settling somewhere over her shoulder, unseeing. "Not if you exclude the gossip page reporters. And even then, they're not interested in the real story - just the headlines. The optics. The scraps. As long as they get their bite, they don't care where it came from."
He paused, mouth curving into something that might have been a smile if there'd been any warmth in it.
"Winning is... winning," he went on. "It's a strange thing to say out loud, but it's true. By the usual metrics, I've already won. I could walk away from all of this tomorrow - sell off the assets, close the chapters, erase the digital trail - and spend the rest of my life hopping between countries, waking up in new cities, ordering breakfast in different languages. I wouldn't need to work another day. Not ever."
His fingers tapped once against the table, a faint, subconscious gesture.
"But then what?" he asked, more to himself than to her. "What would that make me? A man who climbed the mountain only to find out he didn't like the view?"
He leaned back slightly, letting the question linger.
"As for what it looks like for me now... I'm still figuring that out," he admitted. "Only recently, maybe the past year or so, I've come to terms with the fact that the machine I've built can run without me. That I don't have to control every piece, every hour, every fire. And that realization..." He hesitated. "That realization changes everything. Or at least, it should."
He stopped there, letting the silence do what words couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't have more to say - he did. In fact, more thoughts were surfacing with each breath, ideas long buried under layers of performance and productivity. But he held them back, instinctively. Not out of mistrust, but self-preservation. Some truths weren't ready to be aired just yet. Some revelations needed to settle in his own mind before they could be offered to someone else.
Still, something had shifted. Her question had unlocked a door he hadn't realized was closed, let alone locked. And behind it, something quietly stirring. Something closer to honesty than he usually allowed himself. He met her gaze again, more grounded this time, and while he said nothing more, the message was clear enough. She'd asked him twice - and this time, he'd answered. At least, as much as he could. For now.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah didn't speak at first.
She sat there, the soft hum of the city outside pressing against the windows, the ambient noise of glassware and low conversation in the background suddenly distant, unimportant. Her gaze remained fixed on Adrian, but not in that usual way—sharp, observant, cautious. Something inside her had stilled. Not frozen, exactly. More like… settled.
She had expected him to deflect again. Or turn her question into some clever misdirection, dressed in charm and wrapped in half-truths. Maybe even to mock her a little, the way powerful men often did when you touched something too close to their armor. But he hadn't.
Instead, he had peeled something back. Not all of it. Not even most of it. But just enough. Her lips parted, then closed again—an instinctual pause as if she were still searching for where to begin, how to match the weight of what he had given her. Finally, she exhaled, a slow breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her voice, when it came, was softer than before. Not weak. Just less guarded.
"You know…" she started, leaning in just slightly, elbows resting on the table now, her hands loosely folded, "I didn't think you'd actually give me an answer." She didn't mean it as a jab. Her expression shifted, not skeptical but… moved. Not dramatically, but in that quiet, almost imperceptible way—like something delicate being placed on a high shelf in her mind, stored carefully.
"I then thought if you did it would be some sort of fake, polished kind of answer that some how turns the question back to me.”
Her eyes lingered on his for a moment—long enough for it to mean something. And then she looked down, and shook her head with a half-smile that wasn't cynical, but surprised.
There was a pause—brief, but loaded.
She was actually caught a bit off guard by his answer. Then her voice dropped a little, less performative now. More like a truth shared in confidence.
"Most people don’t care to hear the real story. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich and famous or poor and unknown. It’s the same.” Delilah glanced at him. “The harsh truth of it all, no cares for that.”
Delilah tilted her head slightly, studying him now with a different kind of curiosity—less analytical, more open, maybe even a little vulnerable. Something had shifted in her, too. She wasn't interrogating anymore. She was… listening. Really listening.
"But I do. I like the harsh truth. I'm interested in the real story, Adrian," she said, her tone low and steady. "Not the headline version. Not the persona." Her voice softened even further, almost a whisper now, though it carried with surprising clarity. "I think there's more to you than what you let people see. And I don't know why, but… I want to know what's behind that door you just opened.”
And for the first time since they met, the armor she wore—the one built from sharp comebacks and clever misdirection—had a crack in it. Small. But real. Her guard hadn't dropped completely, but it had lowered enough to let something else in. Something unexpected.
Possibility.
Soon the food arrived and the plates were set down without ceremony, and for a moment, Delilah just stared. Her hands rested lightly on the edge of the table, fingers curled near the utensils but unmoving. The food blurred in her peripheral vision—just color and shape and steam. Her mind was already somewhere else. Not here. Not now.
She didn't touch anything.
Instead, her shoulders tensed, barely perceptible unless you were looking for it. Her eyes dropped to the plate again, then away just as quickly, her expression shifting—not with distaste, but with the kind of distant stress that creeps in sideways, like a draft under a locked door.
With a soft sigh she placed her fork down onto the table and leaned back into the booth she was sitting in. Her brows furrowed as she stared at the food. “I never thought food would stress me out this much.” She muttered more to herself than anything by. Her eyes rolled once at the ridiculous pressure she felt due to her upcoming test.
She sat there, the soft hum of the city outside pressing against the windows, the ambient noise of glassware and low conversation in the background suddenly distant, unimportant. Her gaze remained fixed on Adrian, but not in that usual way—sharp, observant, cautious. Something inside her had stilled. Not frozen, exactly. More like… settled.
She had expected him to deflect again. Or turn her question into some clever misdirection, dressed in charm and wrapped in half-truths. Maybe even to mock her a little, the way powerful men often did when you touched something too close to their armor. But he hadn't.
Instead, he had peeled something back. Not all of it. Not even most of it. But just enough. Her lips parted, then closed again—an instinctual pause as if she were still searching for where to begin, how to match the weight of what he had given her. Finally, she exhaled, a slow breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her voice, when it came, was softer than before. Not weak. Just less guarded.
"You know…" she started, leaning in just slightly, elbows resting on the table now, her hands loosely folded, "I didn't think you'd actually give me an answer." She didn't mean it as a jab. Her expression shifted, not skeptical but… moved. Not dramatically, but in that quiet, almost imperceptible way—like something delicate being placed on a high shelf in her mind, stored carefully.
"I then thought if you did it would be some sort of fake, polished kind of answer that some how turns the question back to me.”
Her eyes lingered on his for a moment—long enough for it to mean something. And then she looked down, and shook her head with a half-smile that wasn't cynical, but surprised.
There was a pause—brief, but loaded.
She was actually caught a bit off guard by his answer. Then her voice dropped a little, less performative now. More like a truth shared in confidence.
"Most people don’t care to hear the real story. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich and famous or poor and unknown. It’s the same.” Delilah glanced at him. “The harsh truth of it all, no cares for that.”
Delilah tilted her head slightly, studying him now with a different kind of curiosity—less analytical, more open, maybe even a little vulnerable. Something had shifted in her, too. She wasn't interrogating anymore. She was… listening. Really listening.
"But I do. I like the harsh truth. I'm interested in the real story, Adrian," she said, her tone low and steady. "Not the headline version. Not the persona." Her voice softened even further, almost a whisper now, though it carried with surprising clarity. "I think there's more to you than what you let people see. And I don't know why, but… I want to know what's behind that door you just opened.”
And for the first time since they met, the armor she wore—the one built from sharp comebacks and clever misdirection—had a crack in it. Small. But real. Her guard hadn't dropped completely, but it had lowered enough to let something else in. Something unexpected.
Possibility.
Soon the food arrived and the plates were set down without ceremony, and for a moment, Delilah just stared. Her hands rested lightly on the edge of the table, fingers curled near the utensils but unmoving. The food blurred in her peripheral vision—just color and shape and steam. Her mind was already somewhere else. Not here. Not now.
She didn't touch anything.
Instead, her shoulders tensed, barely perceptible unless you were looking for it. Her eyes dropped to the plate again, then away just as quickly, her expression shifting—not with distaste, but with the kind of distant stress that creeps in sideways, like a draft under a locked door.
With a soft sigh she placed her fork down onto the table and leaned back into the booth she was sitting in. Her brows furrowed as she stared at the food. “I never thought food would stress me out this much.” She muttered more to herself than anything by. Her eyes rolled once at the ridiculous pressure she felt due to her upcoming test.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian had heard those words before.
"But I do. I like the harsh truth. I'm interested in the real story, Adrian."
He could still hear them echoing in his mind, with the soft scratch of memory that always followed such declarations. Every time a woman said that to him, there was a moment - brief, delicate - where he dared to believe it might actually be true. That maybe, finally, he'd found someone who wanted him stripped bare of all pretence. Someone willing to lean into the mess, to listen without flinching, to stay when the honesty turned ugly and the stories got darker.
But they never did. Not really. They all claimed to crave honesty, to long for the kind of raw, unfiltered intimacy that Adrian had to offer. But when he opened up - truly opened up - when he laid out the unvarnished truth, they recoiled. Every time. Maybe not right away. Maybe not even consciously. But eventually, it happened. The shift. The pulling away. The quiet distancing, like someone moving slowly from the smell of smoke before admitting there's a fire. They excused it under the guise of emotional exhaustion, or how things were "more complicated than they expected." They had their reasons. Polished, rehearsed. Packaged with empathy. So he learned. He learned to hold things back. He learned to give just enough to keep things interesting, but never too much to make someone run.
Until Delilah.
There was something different in the way she said it - "I like the harsh truth. I'm interested in the real story, Adrian." She hadn't blinked. She hadn't looked at him with pity or fascination or that slight upward curl of the lip that told him they thought they were special for being the first to pull the curtain back. She didn't look like she wanted to fix him. And that, oddly, was what made him believe her. Maybe it was the way her voice had carried the weight of someone who had their own chapters of bitter truths to contend with. Maybe it was the way she didn't press for details, but didn't retreat from the suggestion of them either. There was an understanding there, unspoken but present. She didn't wear her curiosity like a badge; it just lived in her, quiet and unapologetic.
Still, Adrian wasn't naïve. He'd been hopeful before. And hope, he knew, had teeth. But he couldn't help himself. The more he looked at her, the more he listened, the more he studied the way she responded to the world, the more he saw himself. Not in the superficial ways people like to latch onto - music taste, mutual hobbies, shared hatred for small talk - but in the deeper, harder-to-name ways. The isolation. The prickly defences. The precision in how she chose her words. The careful silences that came not from awkwardness but calculation. She was fluent in restraint, and that was a language Adrian spoke fluently.
So when the food arrived and he saw the flicker of something cross her face - hesitation, maybe disappointment - he noticed. It was fleeting, but undeniable. Especially given what he knew of her. Her passion for cooking wasn't a hobby, it was a calling. He remembered how her eyes had lit up when she'd spoken about food, the near-reverence in her voice as she described techniques and flavours. She had spoken about butter the way some people spoke about God. So to see her stare down her plate with anything other than joy was... strange. Incongruous. He didn't comment right away. He didn't want to misread the moment, but it nagged at him.
Adrian had a decent bullshit detector - one of the few perks of being burned so many times. And what he saw in her now wasn't disgust with the meal itself, or culinary snobbery. It was something heavier. Resigned. Quietly simmering beneath the surface. Eventually, he tilted his head and asked her the question, voice low, thoughtful.
"Culinary school giving you trouble?"
The moment hung in the air between them. He hadn't meant it sarcastically. He wasn't trying to goad her or dig. It was genuine curiosity. Maybe even concern. And that, in itself, surprised him. He wasn't someone who usually leaned into other people's struggles. Not anymore. He'd been dragged through too many emotional minefields, always the one left trying to patch someone else back together while bleeding himself dry. He had boundaries now. Thick, high walls fortified with silence and selective affection. But Delilah made him forget those walls, if only for a moment.
It wasn't just attraction. He had known plenty of women who were beautiful. What Delilah had wasn't something he could define so easily. It was in the way she carried herself - equal parts defiant and weary. In the way her gaze lingered, not to judge, but to understand. In the moments between words, when her presence alone said more than anything she could articulate.
He didn't expect her to answer his question, not really. But part of him hoped she would. Hoped that maybe she'd open a door. Just a crack. Because for once, he wanted someone to prove him wrong. He wanted her to mean what she said. He wanted her to be the one who could take the real story and still look at him the same way afterward. Not with pity. Not with fear. But with that same quiet intensity that made him feel, for the first time in a long time, like he was seen. Like he wasn't just someone surviving his past - but someone who might have a future, too.
"But I do. I like the harsh truth. I'm interested in the real story, Adrian."
He could still hear them echoing in his mind, with the soft scratch of memory that always followed such declarations. Every time a woman said that to him, there was a moment - brief, delicate - where he dared to believe it might actually be true. That maybe, finally, he'd found someone who wanted him stripped bare of all pretence. Someone willing to lean into the mess, to listen without flinching, to stay when the honesty turned ugly and the stories got darker.
But they never did. Not really. They all claimed to crave honesty, to long for the kind of raw, unfiltered intimacy that Adrian had to offer. But when he opened up - truly opened up - when he laid out the unvarnished truth, they recoiled. Every time. Maybe not right away. Maybe not even consciously. But eventually, it happened. The shift. The pulling away. The quiet distancing, like someone moving slowly from the smell of smoke before admitting there's a fire. They excused it under the guise of emotional exhaustion, or how things were "more complicated than they expected." They had their reasons. Polished, rehearsed. Packaged with empathy. So he learned. He learned to hold things back. He learned to give just enough to keep things interesting, but never too much to make someone run.
Until Delilah.
There was something different in the way she said it - "I like the harsh truth. I'm interested in the real story, Adrian." She hadn't blinked. She hadn't looked at him with pity or fascination or that slight upward curl of the lip that told him they thought they were special for being the first to pull the curtain back. She didn't look like she wanted to fix him. And that, oddly, was what made him believe her. Maybe it was the way her voice had carried the weight of someone who had their own chapters of bitter truths to contend with. Maybe it was the way she didn't press for details, but didn't retreat from the suggestion of them either. There was an understanding there, unspoken but present. She didn't wear her curiosity like a badge; it just lived in her, quiet and unapologetic.
Still, Adrian wasn't naïve. He'd been hopeful before. And hope, he knew, had teeth. But he couldn't help himself. The more he looked at her, the more he listened, the more he studied the way she responded to the world, the more he saw himself. Not in the superficial ways people like to latch onto - music taste, mutual hobbies, shared hatred for small talk - but in the deeper, harder-to-name ways. The isolation. The prickly defences. The precision in how she chose her words. The careful silences that came not from awkwardness but calculation. She was fluent in restraint, and that was a language Adrian spoke fluently.
So when the food arrived and he saw the flicker of something cross her face - hesitation, maybe disappointment - he noticed. It was fleeting, but undeniable. Especially given what he knew of her. Her passion for cooking wasn't a hobby, it was a calling. He remembered how her eyes had lit up when she'd spoken about food, the near-reverence in her voice as she described techniques and flavours. She had spoken about butter the way some people spoke about God. So to see her stare down her plate with anything other than joy was... strange. Incongruous. He didn't comment right away. He didn't want to misread the moment, but it nagged at him.
Adrian had a decent bullshit detector - one of the few perks of being burned so many times. And what he saw in her now wasn't disgust with the meal itself, or culinary snobbery. It was something heavier. Resigned. Quietly simmering beneath the surface. Eventually, he tilted his head and asked her the question, voice low, thoughtful.
"Culinary school giving you trouble?"
The moment hung in the air between them. He hadn't meant it sarcastically. He wasn't trying to goad her or dig. It was genuine curiosity. Maybe even concern. And that, in itself, surprised him. He wasn't someone who usually leaned into other people's struggles. Not anymore. He'd been dragged through too many emotional minefields, always the one left trying to patch someone else back together while bleeding himself dry. He had boundaries now. Thick, high walls fortified with silence and selective affection. But Delilah made him forget those walls, if only for a moment.
It wasn't just attraction. He had known plenty of women who were beautiful. What Delilah had wasn't something he could define so easily. It was in the way she carried herself - equal parts defiant and weary. In the way her gaze lingered, not to judge, but to understand. In the moments between words, when her presence alone said more than anything she could articulate.
He didn't expect her to answer his question, not really. But part of him hoped she would. Hoped that maybe she'd open a door. Just a crack. Because for once, he wanted someone to prove him wrong. He wanted her to mean what she said. He wanted her to be the one who could take the real story and still look at him the same way afterward. Not with pity. Not with fear. But with that same quiet intensity that made him feel, for the first time in a long time, like he was seen. Like he wasn't just someone surviving his past - but someone who might have a future, too.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Adrian’s question lingered in her head. She looked at him for a long moment after he asked, her fork flat on the table, the food untouched. The silence wasn't evasive—it was deliberate. She was thinking, not deflecting. Weighing whether to let him in, or to let the moment pass, like so many before it.
Because she knew what this was. A test, of sorts. Not just of honesty, but of intention. He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't trying to pry for the sake of it. But he'd opened a door earlier—more than he probably had in years—and now he was waiting to see if she'd do the same. If she could meet him in the space he'd cleared. If she could hold what he offered without flinching.
"The assignment is…" she started, then trailed off, eyes lowering to the plate in front of her again. She studied it like it might speak for her. It didn't. "It's to create a dish that tells your story," she said finally, quieter now. "Layered flavors. Multiple techniques. At least one component that pushes your current skill level. Something that says who you are, not just what you can cook." Her voice didn't tremble. She didn't fidget. But something in her chest felt… pulled open. Vulnerable in a way that didn't show on her face but echoed in her bones.
"I keep thinking about it. Turning it over in my head. And I get stuck every time."
Her fingers absently traced the edge of her water glass. "Because I don't know how to make that plate make sense. I don't even know if my story has a through-line. It's not beautiful. It's not even clean. There's bitterness I don't know how to balance, and techniques I've had to learn the hard way. Things you can't teach in a kitchen. Or maybe you can, but no one did." She glanced up at him then, her eyes meeting his—and holding.
"I don’t know if you can truly understand why I’m saying or going through but I wanted to at least share it with you.” Delilah was being honest with Adrian and she was slowly letting him in. She figured his answer wasn’t easy to give, Adrian didn’t seem like the type just expose his hardships to everyone or to even show any sort of vulnerability. She cared enough to show some of her own vulnerability.
I care?! She thought.
That surprised her, honestly. How much she cared. Not in a pitying way—God, no. She didn't pity him. That wasn't it at all. She respected it. The courage it took to be real in a world that rewarded masks and punished depth. She saw it in herself too—how many parts she had to hide just to get through a room. How many truths she kept bottled up because nobody really wanted to hear them. But Adrian hadn't recoiled. He hadn't flinched. He genuinely seemed interested in hearing what she had to say. And that made her question his intentions, yes, but not in the way she usually did. This wasn't the usual scan for red flags or hidden motives. This was deeper. She wondered: Why me? Why now? Why tell me any of that?
Was he trying to manipulate her? No… her gut said no. He didn't feel rehearsed. If anything, he seemed like he was still surprised he'd said it aloud. Still carrying the echo of his own honesty like it was some delicate thing he wasn't sure would survive outside of him.
She exhaled, quiet and slow.
"I want to tell my story," she said, more to herself than to him. "But I don't know how to do it without making people uncomfortable. Without pushing too far. Without it coming out ugly. I want to ace this assignment. I know I can cook. I just don’t want to present something that isn’t me. I can make a pretty delicious dish but pretty isn’t me.”
And there it was. The fear that had followed her into every kitchen, every critique, every careful performance: that who she really was would never be palatable. "But I think…" she paused again, looking at him, searching his expression, "maybe I don't have to make it pretty. Maybe it just has to be real."
She finally picked up her fork again, still not hungry, but grounded now. Rooted in something that felt like truth. Something that had been missing for a long time.
Because she knew what this was. A test, of sorts. Not just of honesty, but of intention. He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't trying to pry for the sake of it. But he'd opened a door earlier—more than he probably had in years—and now he was waiting to see if she'd do the same. If she could meet him in the space he'd cleared. If she could hold what he offered without flinching.
"The assignment is…" she started, then trailed off, eyes lowering to the plate in front of her again. She studied it like it might speak for her. It didn't. "It's to create a dish that tells your story," she said finally, quieter now. "Layered flavors. Multiple techniques. At least one component that pushes your current skill level. Something that says who you are, not just what you can cook." Her voice didn't tremble. She didn't fidget. But something in her chest felt… pulled open. Vulnerable in a way that didn't show on her face but echoed in her bones.
"I keep thinking about it. Turning it over in my head. And I get stuck every time."
Her fingers absently traced the edge of her water glass. "Because I don't know how to make that plate make sense. I don't even know if my story has a through-line. It's not beautiful. It's not even clean. There's bitterness I don't know how to balance, and techniques I've had to learn the hard way. Things you can't teach in a kitchen. Or maybe you can, but no one did." She glanced up at him then, her eyes meeting his—and holding.
"I don’t know if you can truly understand why I’m saying or going through but I wanted to at least share it with you.” Delilah was being honest with Adrian and she was slowly letting him in. She figured his answer wasn’t easy to give, Adrian didn’t seem like the type just expose his hardships to everyone or to even show any sort of vulnerability. She cared enough to show some of her own vulnerability.
I care?! She thought.
That surprised her, honestly. How much she cared. Not in a pitying way—God, no. She didn't pity him. That wasn't it at all. She respected it. The courage it took to be real in a world that rewarded masks and punished depth. She saw it in herself too—how many parts she had to hide just to get through a room. How many truths she kept bottled up because nobody really wanted to hear them. But Adrian hadn't recoiled. He hadn't flinched. He genuinely seemed interested in hearing what she had to say. And that made her question his intentions, yes, but not in the way she usually did. This wasn't the usual scan for red flags or hidden motives. This was deeper. She wondered: Why me? Why now? Why tell me any of that?
Was he trying to manipulate her? No… her gut said no. He didn't feel rehearsed. If anything, he seemed like he was still surprised he'd said it aloud. Still carrying the echo of his own honesty like it was some delicate thing he wasn't sure would survive outside of him.
She exhaled, quiet and slow.
"I want to tell my story," she said, more to herself than to him. "But I don't know how to do it without making people uncomfortable. Without pushing too far. Without it coming out ugly. I want to ace this assignment. I know I can cook. I just don’t want to present something that isn’t me. I can make a pretty delicious dish but pretty isn’t me.”
And there it was. The fear that had followed her into every kitchen, every critique, every careful performance: that who she really was would never be palatable. "But I think…" she paused again, looking at him, searching his expression, "maybe I don't have to make it pretty. Maybe it just has to be real."
She finally picked up her fork again, still not hungry, but grounded now. Rooted in something that felt like truth. Something that had been missing for a long time.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian took his time with the food in front of him, chewing slowly, half-focused on the taste, but more absorbed by the cadence of Delilah's voice as she spoke about her assignment. It wasn't just a casual explanation - there was weight to her words, and he felt the gravity of them. The assignment wasn't simply about food. It was about identity, vulnerability, and the terrifying prospect of presenting something deeply personal under the guise of a plated dish. A plate that represented her. A plate that had to say something honest without her needing to say a word.
He understood the frustration. The quiet panic she tried to disguise. There was fear beneath her tone, subtly laced between her descriptions of ingredients and techniques, hidden behind the practiced way she explained the assignment. He'd seen this kind of fear before - not just in kitchens, but in artists, performers, even writers. That moment where skill meets soul and the two are asked to dance in front of strangers. To represent herself, to truly say "this is who I am" with food, demanded a level of exposure that many never dared attempt. She was opening herself up, maybe for the first time, and even if she didn't realize it, the mere fact she was talking about it with him meant something.
She was already doing it, in a way. Not just through the assignment, but here, with him. Sharing parts of herself, even tentatively. He had shared parts of his own story once, and maybe that had opened the door for her. There was a mutual understanding in those exchanges - an unspoken trust slowly taking shape between them. And Adrian recognized this phase of the journey. The beginning of the real work. That dangerous, thrilling stretch of road when talent has been identified and there's a path in front of you, beckoning you forward. But talent alone wasn't enough. Not here. The path didn't offer guarantees. Just the possibility of becoming something more, if she could stomach the risk.
He remembered that point in his own journey with a kind of bittersweet clarity. The moment when people stopped seeing you as promising and started expecting you to prove it. The praise shifted. The questions changed. What are you working on now? What's next? Suddenly, it wasn't about discovering your potential - it was about fulfilling it. Following through became the new mountain to climb, and there was no map. Just instinct, passion, and the hope that neither would burn out when the pressure mounted.
But was she ready? Could she follow through?
The truth was, he didn't know. But what mattered more than her readiness was whether she had the space to explore - to push boundaries without fear of failure. Because growth didn't happen inside of comfort zones, and rarely inside classrooms, no matter how prestigious. Real discovery came late at night, when the rules could be bent, when there were no grades hanging over your head. It came in the mistakes, the ruined sauces, the weird ingredient pairings that somehow worked. That was where identity was shaped - in the mess, in the play, in the quiet rebellion against perfection.
He looked across the table, his expression thoughtful, brows faintly furrowed.
"Do you have a space where you get to experiment?" The question lingered in the air, not accusatory, but curious, open. "Outside of culinary school, of course." He let that clarification sit gently, not to diminish the school, but to highlight the difference between formal instruction and true creative space.
"There is a chef I know," he continued after a pause, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp with intent, "who likes to open his kitchen outside of regular hours, after close, when the noise has died down, and it's just silence and steel and whatever's in your head waiting to come out. He invites young chefs, ones he sees something in, gives them access to everything, no judgment, no limits. Just a space to try. To fail. To figure out what the fuck they're really trying to say with their food."
He reached for his drink, took a slow sip, and set it back down with precision, as if the act punctuated his offer. "I could make the connection for you." It wasn't said with fanfare. There was no ego in it, no implication of strings attached. Just a simple offer from someone who'd been there - someone who understood what it meant to be at the beginning of something, standing at the edge, unsure if you had the nerve to leap.
And beneath the quiet professionalism of his voice, there was something gentler. A kind of respect. Not just for her skill, but for her willingness to wrestle with it. For her decision to talk about fear rather than pretend it wasn't there. Because that, to Adrian, was the real marker of promise—not confidence, not polish—but honesty.
He knew how rare that was.
And it was worth encouraging.
He understood the frustration. The quiet panic she tried to disguise. There was fear beneath her tone, subtly laced between her descriptions of ingredients and techniques, hidden behind the practiced way she explained the assignment. He'd seen this kind of fear before - not just in kitchens, but in artists, performers, even writers. That moment where skill meets soul and the two are asked to dance in front of strangers. To represent herself, to truly say "this is who I am" with food, demanded a level of exposure that many never dared attempt. She was opening herself up, maybe for the first time, and even if she didn't realize it, the mere fact she was talking about it with him meant something.
She was already doing it, in a way. Not just through the assignment, but here, with him. Sharing parts of herself, even tentatively. He had shared parts of his own story once, and maybe that had opened the door for her. There was a mutual understanding in those exchanges - an unspoken trust slowly taking shape between them. And Adrian recognized this phase of the journey. The beginning of the real work. That dangerous, thrilling stretch of road when talent has been identified and there's a path in front of you, beckoning you forward. But talent alone wasn't enough. Not here. The path didn't offer guarantees. Just the possibility of becoming something more, if she could stomach the risk.
He remembered that point in his own journey with a kind of bittersweet clarity. The moment when people stopped seeing you as promising and started expecting you to prove it. The praise shifted. The questions changed. What are you working on now? What's next? Suddenly, it wasn't about discovering your potential - it was about fulfilling it. Following through became the new mountain to climb, and there was no map. Just instinct, passion, and the hope that neither would burn out when the pressure mounted.
But was she ready? Could she follow through?
The truth was, he didn't know. But what mattered more than her readiness was whether she had the space to explore - to push boundaries without fear of failure. Because growth didn't happen inside of comfort zones, and rarely inside classrooms, no matter how prestigious. Real discovery came late at night, when the rules could be bent, when there were no grades hanging over your head. It came in the mistakes, the ruined sauces, the weird ingredient pairings that somehow worked. That was where identity was shaped - in the mess, in the play, in the quiet rebellion against perfection.
He looked across the table, his expression thoughtful, brows faintly furrowed.
"Do you have a space where you get to experiment?" The question lingered in the air, not accusatory, but curious, open. "Outside of culinary school, of course." He let that clarification sit gently, not to diminish the school, but to highlight the difference between formal instruction and true creative space.
"There is a chef I know," he continued after a pause, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp with intent, "who likes to open his kitchen outside of regular hours, after close, when the noise has died down, and it's just silence and steel and whatever's in your head waiting to come out. He invites young chefs, ones he sees something in, gives them access to everything, no judgment, no limits. Just a space to try. To fail. To figure out what the fuck they're really trying to say with their food."
He reached for his drink, took a slow sip, and set it back down with precision, as if the act punctuated his offer. "I could make the connection for you." It wasn't said with fanfare. There was no ego in it, no implication of strings attached. Just a simple offer from someone who'd been there - someone who understood what it meant to be at the beginning of something, standing at the edge, unsure if you had the nerve to leap.
And beneath the quiet professionalism of his voice, there was something gentler. A kind of respect. Not just for her skill, but for her willingness to wrestle with it. For her decision to talk about fear rather than pretend it wasn't there. Because that, to Adrian, was the real marker of promise—not confidence, not polish—but honesty.
He knew how rare that was.
And it was worth encouraging.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah's hand stilled around her fork. The clink of metal against porcelain faded into the background as Adrian's question settled in. Do you have a space where you get to experiment?
Her mind flicked through the usual images: her tiny kitchen with its chipped tiles and temperamental stove, the one working pan that had been with her since she was a teenager and every late-night scramble to make something out of nothing. She thought of the overhead light that buzzed when it rained and the cabinet door that never quite closed.
"Not really," she said at last, her voice even. "The stove back at my place is old. Two of the burners don't work. The oven's more suggestion than science—sometimes it heats, sometimes it doesn't. It's a little like gambling every time I turn it on." She gave a faint smile, but there was no humor in it—just quiet familiarity. This was the space she'd lived in, learned in, made do in. There was no room for whimsy, no freedom to fail. Only the pressure to make each meal count.
"And I don't have much in the way of equipment," she added. "Just a few basics—nothing you'd find in a real kitchen. I had one good knife until I went shopping today so thank you for that, one pan I trust, and a cutting board that's seen better days. I can't afford to buy ingredients just to test something. If it goes wrong, that's dinner wasted."
Her thumb moved slowly across the hem of her napkin as she spoke, grounding herself. "So, no. There's no space to play. Not really. Everything I cook has to work. The first time." And yet, saying it aloud didn't feel like a confession. It wasn't something she was ashamed of anymore—just a fact. She'd learned to work within her limits. She'd become resourceful, quick-thinking, focused. That had to count for something.
But then Adrian offered her something she hadn't expected—not pity, not a lecture, but an actual opening. A door she didn't know she'd been waiting for someone to unlock. Delilah blinked, caught off guard. "You're serious?" Her voice was quieter now, edged with something that sounded almost like disbelief. "You'd really do that—introduce me?" She wasn't used to that kind of offer. Not without strings, not without someone expecting something in return. Most of the time, people kept their distance. They listened, nodded, moved on. But Adrian wasn't doing that. He was offering something real—something that might actually change things.
Her chest tightened, not with fear, but with a flicker of something she rarely let herself feel: hope. "I'd love that," she said, more certain now. "I mean… if he's willing to let someone like me in, I'll show up, I'll stay late. I can do whatever it is that I need to do. I'm not looking to take up space unless I earn it. But if there's a chance—just a chance—to cook without the pressure of getting it perfect the first time… I want to try. I have a feeling this assignment is going to take a few tries.”
She looked across the table at Adrian, her expression steadier than before. "I want to figure out what I'm really saying with my food—not just what I can pull off in a survival kitchen with nothing but instinct."
A beat passed. Then she added, quieter:
"I just need one shot. I won’t mess it up.” She said. She never got help like this. Her mother has always made things complicated. The drinking controlled her life. “Heh, I can finally do what I want to do.” She said mostly to herself. Delilah couldn’t stop smiling. She was looking forward to just indulging in the one that she loved to do. Cook.
She took a breath and let it out slowly. There was a flicker of determination behind her words now—not just gratitude, but something firmer. A promise, maybe. To herself as much as to Adrian. "Thank you," she said at last. “I’m curious though, why are you so willing to help? I mean…since I’ve met you I have been given money and now this.” She looked at Adrian. “Are you paying me for my time or something? I’m just curious. You don’t strike as the type of person do just help…there’s always some sort of transaction right?” She needed to hear Adrian answer her. She wanted to hear him say what his reasoning was.
Her mind flicked through the usual images: her tiny kitchen with its chipped tiles and temperamental stove, the one working pan that had been with her since she was a teenager and every late-night scramble to make something out of nothing. She thought of the overhead light that buzzed when it rained and the cabinet door that never quite closed.
"Not really," she said at last, her voice even. "The stove back at my place is old. Two of the burners don't work. The oven's more suggestion than science—sometimes it heats, sometimes it doesn't. It's a little like gambling every time I turn it on." She gave a faint smile, but there was no humor in it—just quiet familiarity. This was the space she'd lived in, learned in, made do in. There was no room for whimsy, no freedom to fail. Only the pressure to make each meal count.
"And I don't have much in the way of equipment," she added. "Just a few basics—nothing you'd find in a real kitchen. I had one good knife until I went shopping today so thank you for that, one pan I trust, and a cutting board that's seen better days. I can't afford to buy ingredients just to test something. If it goes wrong, that's dinner wasted."
Her thumb moved slowly across the hem of her napkin as she spoke, grounding herself. "So, no. There's no space to play. Not really. Everything I cook has to work. The first time." And yet, saying it aloud didn't feel like a confession. It wasn't something she was ashamed of anymore—just a fact. She'd learned to work within her limits. She'd become resourceful, quick-thinking, focused. That had to count for something.
But then Adrian offered her something she hadn't expected—not pity, not a lecture, but an actual opening. A door she didn't know she'd been waiting for someone to unlock. Delilah blinked, caught off guard. "You're serious?" Her voice was quieter now, edged with something that sounded almost like disbelief. "You'd really do that—introduce me?" She wasn't used to that kind of offer. Not without strings, not without someone expecting something in return. Most of the time, people kept their distance. They listened, nodded, moved on. But Adrian wasn't doing that. He was offering something real—something that might actually change things.
Her chest tightened, not with fear, but with a flicker of something she rarely let herself feel: hope. "I'd love that," she said, more certain now. "I mean… if he's willing to let someone like me in, I'll show up, I'll stay late. I can do whatever it is that I need to do. I'm not looking to take up space unless I earn it. But if there's a chance—just a chance—to cook without the pressure of getting it perfect the first time… I want to try. I have a feeling this assignment is going to take a few tries.”
She looked across the table at Adrian, her expression steadier than before. "I want to figure out what I'm really saying with my food—not just what I can pull off in a survival kitchen with nothing but instinct."
A beat passed. Then she added, quieter:
"I just need one shot. I won’t mess it up.” She said. She never got help like this. Her mother has always made things complicated. The drinking controlled her life. “Heh, I can finally do what I want to do.” She said mostly to herself. Delilah couldn’t stop smiling. She was looking forward to just indulging in the one that she loved to do. Cook.
She took a breath and let it out slowly. There was a flicker of determination behind her words now—not just gratitude, but something firmer. A promise, maybe. To herself as much as to Adrian. "Thank you," she said at last. “I’m curious though, why are you so willing to help? I mean…since I’ve met you I have been given money and now this.” She looked at Adrian. “Are you paying me for my time or something? I’m just curious. You don’t strike as the type of person do just help…there’s always some sort of transaction right?” She needed to hear Adrian answer her. She wanted to hear him say what his reasoning was.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian pondered her question in silence, not out of hesitation, but because the weight of his response demanded more than a glib or reactive answer. He had learned the value of considered words, of choosing silence until speech was absolutely necessary. This wasn't about business, deals, or positioning. It was something more intimate, more revealing. He wanted to answer her in a way that mattered.
"When I was coming up… when I was where you are now," he began slowly, his voice low, gravelled with memory and the faintest edge of something harder to name, "I didn't have anyone offering me help. Not once. And no, I didn't think I needed it. I was stubborn, sure of myself. Still am, to a point."
He let that truth hang for a beat before continuing, letting the air fill with its quiet gravity.
"But then I heard your story. The way you spoke about where you came from, the things you've had to survive. It struck something in me. Something I'd kept buried for a long time. I told you before, and I meant it - I see myself in you."
His eyes narrowed slightly, not at her, but at the ghosts rising behind his gaze.
"You said it earlier, asked it like it was rhetorical, but it's not. 'What is the point of power, of wealth, if I keep it all to myself?' That hit hard. Because it's a question I've avoided for years. I've hoarded what I've built like a dragon on a pile of gold, scorched anyone who came close without offering something I could use. I got used to the silence, the solitude. Told myself it was clarity. Focus. But now…"
He trailed off for a moment, swallowing the sharp edge of revelation that threatened to rise.
"Now I wonder if maybe I just didn't want to face the cost of giving a damn."
He could feel the shift happening inside him, slow and inevitable, like tectonic plates grinding into new formations. For more than two decades, he had built not just an empire, but a fortress around himself - each success another layer of reinforced concrete, each betrayal another row of steel spikes. No one got in unless they had something he needed. No one was kept unless they offered value. But Delilah wasn't part of that equation. She wasn't leverage or a calculated risk. She wasn't angling to get her name tied to his brand, or to bask in his power. She simply was. And in that unfiltered presence, she reminded him of someone he used to be before ambition had swallowed the last of his softness.
"I've seen people try to mirror me before," he said, softer now. "Try to imitate my path, adopt my methods, copy my confidence. But you, you're not an echo. You're raw and sharp and real in a way most people are too afraid to be. You're still pushing, still hungry, and the world's been trying to grind that fire out of you from the moment you stepped into it. But it hasn't. And that grit? That refusal to quit even when the odds are against you? That's something I respect more than anything."
He leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"I know what it feels like to be underestimated. To be judged before you've even opened your mouth. I know the rage that comes with knowing you could burn the whole world down if someone would just give you one real chance. Not a favour. Not pity. A chance."
He looked at her, gaze unwavering.
"So maybe this is me trying to be the person I never had. Maybe I'm doing it selfishly, because helping you reminds me that I wasn't crazy for believing in myself all those years ago. Or maybe it's just time I stopped building alone."
He hesitated only for a second before adding, "I don't want you to think I'm doing this because I expect anything from you. You don't owe me gratitude, loyalty, nothing. This isn't a transaction. I'm offering what I can because I believe in you. And because I'm tired of pretending that belief means nothing."
He looked down briefly, fingers tapping against his thigh with restrained energy, then met her gaze again.
"And if I'm being completely honest," he said, his tone shifting into something rougher, more intimate, "you scare the shit out of me. Not because I think you'll fail. But because if you don't? If you take what I give and run with it? The world would have another me, or at least the female version. And I'm okay with that."
He allowed himself the smallest smirk then, not one of arrogance, but of truth finally spoken aloud.
"I don't help many people. Hell, I barely tolerate most. But you… you make me want to. You make me want to do more than sit on the top of a mountain, surrounded by people too afraid to speak plainly. You remind me why I climbed it in the first place."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"So if you're wondering why I'm doing this - it's because I believe in you more than I've believed in anything in a long time. And because somewhere deep down, I'm hoping that belief might finally matter."
"When I was coming up… when I was where you are now," he began slowly, his voice low, gravelled with memory and the faintest edge of something harder to name, "I didn't have anyone offering me help. Not once. And no, I didn't think I needed it. I was stubborn, sure of myself. Still am, to a point."
He let that truth hang for a beat before continuing, letting the air fill with its quiet gravity.
"But then I heard your story. The way you spoke about where you came from, the things you've had to survive. It struck something in me. Something I'd kept buried for a long time. I told you before, and I meant it - I see myself in you."
His eyes narrowed slightly, not at her, but at the ghosts rising behind his gaze.
"You said it earlier, asked it like it was rhetorical, but it's not. 'What is the point of power, of wealth, if I keep it all to myself?' That hit hard. Because it's a question I've avoided for years. I've hoarded what I've built like a dragon on a pile of gold, scorched anyone who came close without offering something I could use. I got used to the silence, the solitude. Told myself it was clarity. Focus. But now…"
He trailed off for a moment, swallowing the sharp edge of revelation that threatened to rise.
"Now I wonder if maybe I just didn't want to face the cost of giving a damn."
He could feel the shift happening inside him, slow and inevitable, like tectonic plates grinding into new formations. For more than two decades, he had built not just an empire, but a fortress around himself - each success another layer of reinforced concrete, each betrayal another row of steel spikes. No one got in unless they had something he needed. No one was kept unless they offered value. But Delilah wasn't part of that equation. She wasn't leverage or a calculated risk. She wasn't angling to get her name tied to his brand, or to bask in his power. She simply was. And in that unfiltered presence, she reminded him of someone he used to be before ambition had swallowed the last of his softness.
"I've seen people try to mirror me before," he said, softer now. "Try to imitate my path, adopt my methods, copy my confidence. But you, you're not an echo. You're raw and sharp and real in a way most people are too afraid to be. You're still pushing, still hungry, and the world's been trying to grind that fire out of you from the moment you stepped into it. But it hasn't. And that grit? That refusal to quit even when the odds are against you? That's something I respect more than anything."
He leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"I know what it feels like to be underestimated. To be judged before you've even opened your mouth. I know the rage that comes with knowing you could burn the whole world down if someone would just give you one real chance. Not a favour. Not pity. A chance."
He looked at her, gaze unwavering.
"So maybe this is me trying to be the person I never had. Maybe I'm doing it selfishly, because helping you reminds me that I wasn't crazy for believing in myself all those years ago. Or maybe it's just time I stopped building alone."
He hesitated only for a second before adding, "I don't want you to think I'm doing this because I expect anything from you. You don't owe me gratitude, loyalty, nothing. This isn't a transaction. I'm offering what I can because I believe in you. And because I'm tired of pretending that belief means nothing."
He looked down briefly, fingers tapping against his thigh with restrained energy, then met her gaze again.
"And if I'm being completely honest," he said, his tone shifting into something rougher, more intimate, "you scare the shit out of me. Not because I think you'll fail. But because if you don't? If you take what I give and run with it? The world would have another me, or at least the female version. And I'm okay with that."
He allowed himself the smallest smirk then, not one of arrogance, but of truth finally spoken aloud.
"I don't help many people. Hell, I barely tolerate most. But you… you make me want to. You make me want to do more than sit on the top of a mountain, surrounded by people too afraid to speak plainly. You remind me why I climbed it in the first place."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"So if you're wondering why I'm doing this - it's because I believe in you more than I've believed in anything in a long time. And because somewhere deep down, I'm hoping that belief might finally matter."
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah sat in silence. Not because she didn't have something to say, but because she felt—deeply. Every word Adrian spoke struck some hidden place inside her, as if he'd held a mirror up and dared her to see more than what she'd gotten used to: the armor, the anger, the ceaseless grinding.
Her fingers, laced together in her lap, tightened. Not out of tension, but restraint. Because her body wanted to react before her mind gave permission. There was a burning rising in her chest—not the usual kind that came from having to defend herself, explain herself, or steel herself. No, this was heat of another sort. Something more fragile. Hope, maybe. Or recognition.
She watched him carefully as he spoke. The deliberate weight of his words, the pauses that weren't for effect but for truth—real truth—stirred something dangerous in her. He wasn't just giving her an opportunity. He was offering a piece of himself, laid bare in ways no one had ever risked with her. Especially not someone like him.
Her throat was tight. She could feel the pressure at the base of her eyes—the warning swell of tears—but she blinked them back with force. No. Not now. She wouldn't let him see her cry, even if his words made her want to. Even if his belief in her was the very thing she'd craved for years and never dared admit.
In the past, when people praised her, it always came with a hook—an ask, an angle, an expectation. But Adrian's voice had none of that. There was no barbed wire woven into his sentences. No quid pro quo lurking in the dark. Just belief. Raw and undeserved, which somehow made it hit harder. She let out a breath, finally. It felt like exhaling smoke she didn't know she'd swallowed.
The voice in her head was quieter than usual, it was soft, usually all she could hear was herself yelling. It was edged with emotion she tried to keep it buried. I was wrong about him…she thought, eyes dropping to her hands before flicking back up to meet his. "I guess I was wrong about you. Sorry…I thought this was about ego maybe. A power game. That maybe you saw me as some kind of project to polish up and claim as proof that you're still sharp. I refuse to be a project to anyone.”
Her lips pressed together, Adrian had answered all her questions with honesty. She felt bad for judging him and realized that there was more to this man who she thought was just a wolf.
"It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard something like this but it’s the first time I actually feel like someone is telling me the truth. People like me are the underdog and that pisses me off. I won’t accept. I never will. So thank you for believing in ma.”her voice was steady, strong but calm. It was true though, Delilah refused to be a victim. No matter how hard things get, she never complained. She never reached out for help. She just pushed through.
A silence fell between them again, but this one wasn't heavy. It was full of something different. Something forming. She leaned back in her chair, but not in retreat. It was more like she was steadying herself, bracing against the gravity of the moment. Her guard was still there, yes—it had to be—but something in her posture softened. Just a little. Just enough to let something in.
"I've spent my whole life being the strong one," she said, her tone quieter. "I guess you can say I’m stubborn too, instead of quoting and taking the easy way out I’ve decided to create my own way out which seems to be harder but it’s my decision. It’s my path that I’m creating. I have a fire lit in me and I plan to burn anyone who’s in my way.”
Her eyes met his, steady now despite the storm behind them. Delilah believed in her own words, she felt them deeply. Anyone that looked down on her she believed would regret it. Everyone that saw her as just a pretty face truly didn’t understand her but Adrian. He was different.
“When I start cooking, maybe if you have the time you can come by taste parts of my assignment. I understand you’re busy but I wouldn’t mind a little feedback.” She said honestly. This offer was her trying to let him in, into her life and the positive parts of it. There was one thing she knew for sure, she was a damn good cook. “Or I can make you dinner one night. You’ll have better pasta than this.” She said and pointed to one of the plates on the table, there was a smirk on her face. It was real, her eyes were bright, the natural flush of her cheeks added to the innocent roundness of her eyes and baby doll lips. This was Delilah, adorable yet a firecracker in a lot of other ways.
Her fingers, laced together in her lap, tightened. Not out of tension, but restraint. Because her body wanted to react before her mind gave permission. There was a burning rising in her chest—not the usual kind that came from having to defend herself, explain herself, or steel herself. No, this was heat of another sort. Something more fragile. Hope, maybe. Or recognition.
She watched him carefully as he spoke. The deliberate weight of his words, the pauses that weren't for effect but for truth—real truth—stirred something dangerous in her. He wasn't just giving her an opportunity. He was offering a piece of himself, laid bare in ways no one had ever risked with her. Especially not someone like him.
Her throat was tight. She could feel the pressure at the base of her eyes—the warning swell of tears—but she blinked them back with force. No. Not now. She wouldn't let him see her cry, even if his words made her want to. Even if his belief in her was the very thing she'd craved for years and never dared admit.
In the past, when people praised her, it always came with a hook—an ask, an angle, an expectation. But Adrian's voice had none of that. There was no barbed wire woven into his sentences. No quid pro quo lurking in the dark. Just belief. Raw and undeserved, which somehow made it hit harder. She let out a breath, finally. It felt like exhaling smoke she didn't know she'd swallowed.
The voice in her head was quieter than usual, it was soft, usually all she could hear was herself yelling. It was edged with emotion she tried to keep it buried. I was wrong about him…she thought, eyes dropping to her hands before flicking back up to meet his. "I guess I was wrong about you. Sorry…I thought this was about ego maybe. A power game. That maybe you saw me as some kind of project to polish up and claim as proof that you're still sharp. I refuse to be a project to anyone.”
Her lips pressed together, Adrian had answered all her questions with honesty. She felt bad for judging him and realized that there was more to this man who she thought was just a wolf.
"It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard something like this but it’s the first time I actually feel like someone is telling me the truth. People like me are the underdog and that pisses me off. I won’t accept. I never will. So thank you for believing in ma.”her voice was steady, strong but calm. It was true though, Delilah refused to be a victim. No matter how hard things get, she never complained. She never reached out for help. She just pushed through.
A silence fell between them again, but this one wasn't heavy. It was full of something different. Something forming. She leaned back in her chair, but not in retreat. It was more like she was steadying herself, bracing against the gravity of the moment. Her guard was still there, yes—it had to be—but something in her posture softened. Just a little. Just enough to let something in.
"I've spent my whole life being the strong one," she said, her tone quieter. "I guess you can say I’m stubborn too, instead of quoting and taking the easy way out I’ve decided to create my own way out which seems to be harder but it’s my decision. It’s my path that I’m creating. I have a fire lit in me and I plan to burn anyone who’s in my way.”
Her eyes met his, steady now despite the storm behind them. Delilah believed in her own words, she felt them deeply. Anyone that looked down on her she believed would regret it. Everyone that saw her as just a pretty face truly didn’t understand her but Adrian. He was different.
“When I start cooking, maybe if you have the time you can come by taste parts of my assignment. I understand you’re busy but I wouldn’t mind a little feedback.” She said honestly. This offer was her trying to let him in, into her life and the positive parts of it. There was one thing she knew for sure, she was a damn good cook. “Or I can make you dinner one night. You’ll have better pasta than this.” She said and pointed to one of the plates on the table, there was a smirk on her face. It was real, her eyes were bright, the natural flush of her cheeks added to the innocent roundness of her eyes and baby doll lips. This was Delilah, adorable yet a firecracker in a lot of other ways.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian smiled as she spoke, a slow, genuine curve of the lips that betrayed more than amusement. It was recognition. There was a familiarity in her voice, a defiant undercurrent that struck something deep within him - something long dormant, maybe even forgotten. The words lingered in the air like a charged spell, and Adrian felt the pulse of them resonate through his chest. Not just the sentiment, but the absolute conviction in her voice. There was no posturing in it. No empty bravado. Just the truth of someone who knew exactly what it meant to be overlooked, dismissed, written off - and who had turned every slight into fuel.
"Never piss off the underdog. They are a dangerous animal, especially when they are underestimated."
That fire - he recognised it instantly. He had seen it before, though rarely. The kind of fire that refused to be snuffed out no matter how brutal the winds. It was the same ferocity that clawed its way through broken bones and sleepless nights. That same wild, undaunted determination to never give up. It was the spirit of someone who had been kicked down but had chosen, every single time, to rise again - not out of optimism, but defiance. He'd seen it in people with nothing to lose and everything to prove. He'd seen it in kids barely old enough to vote who had already lived through hell. But in her, it burned with a rare clarity. She didn't just carry the scars - she had weaponised them. And God, it was intoxicating.
When she made her offer - so casual, so simple - to cook for him, it caught him off guard. Not because he doubted her, but because of how much he suddenly wanted it. It wasn't just about food. It wasn't about flavours or the playful dare laced beneath her words. It was the intimacy of it. The quiet vulnerability of offering to share something personal, something crafted by hand. Something that said: This is mine, and I'm giving it to you. He hadn't expected to care. He certainly hadn't expected to want. But it hit him with surprising force—an ache low in his chest, a hunger that had nothing to do with appetite. His smile sharpened into something more thoughtful. Calculated, yes, but honest too.
"Deal. But if you are going to make a claim to beat this place, I expect you to follow through."
He meant it. Every word. And not as some teasing dare or smug retort. It wasn't a challenge in the usual sense - not the kind men tossed around to impress or provoke. It was something else. An invitation, almost. A line drawn not in sand, but in sincerity. He was asking her to hold herself to her promise - not for him, but for herself. Because there was something sacred in keeping one's word, especially when the world didn't expect you to. And he knew she understood that better than most.
He could already imagine it - the kitchen alive with energy, music playing low in the background, the air thick with the scent of herbs, garlic, oil warmed to the point of smoke. Her movements would be purposeful, sharp, unhurried but confident. Not performative. Just… competent. Capable. He liked that.
No—he craved it.
There was a deep, unspoken thrill in watching someone do something well, especially something as intimate as cooking. The way it required attention, patience, control - every ingredient a decision, every touch an act of care. The kind of sensuality that didn't need to be overt to be devastating. The kind that slid beneath the surface and stayed there, pulsing like heat trapped under skin. It made him wonder what else she did like that - what other parts of her life she approached with that same fierce intent. And what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that attention. That hunger. The thought sent a quiet pulse through his groin. Not lust, exactly. Something deeper. More dangerous. A yearning that felt personal. And there was something else too. A sense that he was stepping into territory that could unravel him. Not because she asked for power. But because she wielded none of it carelessly. Every move she made came from a place of hard-won certainty. She didn't try to dominate. She didn't need to.
She simply was. That, more than anything, was what made her dangerous. Because if he let her in, she wouldn't wreck him like a storm. She'd rebuild him without ever asking permission. And he'd thank her for it.
So, he made the deal. Not because he wanted to eat - though he was certain the food would be damn good - but because in her challenge, in her offhand offer, was something sacred. A promise. A statement of worth. And he would honour that. He would hold her to her word not because he doubted her, but because he believed her capable of exceeding it. And because deep down, he knew - underdogs didn't just survive. They changed the game.
"Never piss off the underdog. They are a dangerous animal, especially when they are underestimated."
That fire - he recognised it instantly. He had seen it before, though rarely. The kind of fire that refused to be snuffed out no matter how brutal the winds. It was the same ferocity that clawed its way through broken bones and sleepless nights. That same wild, undaunted determination to never give up. It was the spirit of someone who had been kicked down but had chosen, every single time, to rise again - not out of optimism, but defiance. He'd seen it in people with nothing to lose and everything to prove. He'd seen it in kids barely old enough to vote who had already lived through hell. But in her, it burned with a rare clarity. She didn't just carry the scars - she had weaponised them. And God, it was intoxicating.
When she made her offer - so casual, so simple - to cook for him, it caught him off guard. Not because he doubted her, but because of how much he suddenly wanted it. It wasn't just about food. It wasn't about flavours or the playful dare laced beneath her words. It was the intimacy of it. The quiet vulnerability of offering to share something personal, something crafted by hand. Something that said: This is mine, and I'm giving it to you. He hadn't expected to care. He certainly hadn't expected to want. But it hit him with surprising force—an ache low in his chest, a hunger that had nothing to do with appetite. His smile sharpened into something more thoughtful. Calculated, yes, but honest too.
"Deal. But if you are going to make a claim to beat this place, I expect you to follow through."
He meant it. Every word. And not as some teasing dare or smug retort. It wasn't a challenge in the usual sense - not the kind men tossed around to impress or provoke. It was something else. An invitation, almost. A line drawn not in sand, but in sincerity. He was asking her to hold herself to her promise - not for him, but for herself. Because there was something sacred in keeping one's word, especially when the world didn't expect you to. And he knew she understood that better than most.
He could already imagine it - the kitchen alive with energy, music playing low in the background, the air thick with the scent of herbs, garlic, oil warmed to the point of smoke. Her movements would be purposeful, sharp, unhurried but confident. Not performative. Just… competent. Capable. He liked that.
No—he craved it.
There was a deep, unspoken thrill in watching someone do something well, especially something as intimate as cooking. The way it required attention, patience, control - every ingredient a decision, every touch an act of care. The kind of sensuality that didn't need to be overt to be devastating. The kind that slid beneath the surface and stayed there, pulsing like heat trapped under skin. It made him wonder what else she did like that - what other parts of her life she approached with that same fierce intent. And what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that attention. That hunger. The thought sent a quiet pulse through his groin. Not lust, exactly. Something deeper. More dangerous. A yearning that felt personal. And there was something else too. A sense that he was stepping into territory that could unravel him. Not because she asked for power. But because she wielded none of it carelessly. Every move she made came from a place of hard-won certainty. She didn't try to dominate. She didn't need to.
She simply was. That, more than anything, was what made her dangerous. Because if he let her in, she wouldn't wreck him like a storm. She'd rebuild him without ever asking permission. And he'd thank her for it.
So, he made the deal. Not because he wanted to eat - though he was certain the food would be damn good - but because in her challenge, in her offhand offer, was something sacred. A promise. A statement of worth. And he would honour that. He would hold her to her word not because he doubted her, but because he believed her capable of exceeding it. And because deep down, he knew - underdogs didn't just survive. They changed the game.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah's eyes narrowed playfully as she set her fork down with deliberate precision, the last bite of the restaurant's supposedly "legendary" pasta still lingering on her tongue. She tilted her head slightly, her smile tugging at one corner of her mouth—wry, knowing, and completely unshaken by the praise this place usually commanded.
"Alright," she said, voice low but edged with conviction. "Let me know when you're ready for me to show you what I got. Because this?"—she gestured subtly at the half-eaten plate in front of her—"It's good. I'll give it that. Better than a lot of other places but it’s missing something. You’ll see what I mean once you taste my pasta.” She casually licked the pasta sauce from her fork and set it down. She was fine eating, she didn’t necessarily eat much anyway.
There was no bravado in her tone—just something stronger. Something forged in the many nights in her childhood kitchen, every burned fingertip, every long night where pasta was more than a meal—it was survival. It was control. It was home.
She leaned in just a little, her gaze holding his, a quiet heat building behind her eyes. "I’m actually a bit excited. I never really get to cook for anyone but my mom and teacher. I can’t wait for more constructive feedback. I’m sure your palate is quite seasoned and exotic. I trust you know what you’re talking about when it comes to flavors.” And she meant it. Every word. But beneath her playful defiance, a deeper current stirred.
Adrian's belief in her—it rattled her more than she wanted to admit. It wasn't the kind of belief people usually offered her, the empty, pat-on-the-head kind. No. He looked at her like he saw her. Like he understood the parts of her she didn't show freely—the stubborn edges, the sleepless grit, the weight of expectations no one else ever offered to carry. And more than that, he trusted her. That was the part that hit hardest. He trusted she could deliver. That she would.
Delilah pushed some of the loose strands of her hair back from hr grace. The light waves fell back into place easily. Her chocolate brown eyes stayed on Adrian. Even in this setting she noticed how well put together he was. His posture, his composure. Adrian had become a kind of unexpected calm in the storm of her life. School was still pressure. The future was still uncertain. But there was something about him—this man who spoke with the gravity of experience and listened with the patience of someone who'd earned their silence—that made her feel like maybe she wasn't so alone in all of it. Like maybe she didn't have to grind her way forward completely on her own anymore.
Maybe he can be somewhat of a mentor or someone to go to for guidance. She thought and titled her head a bit. He didn't promise to fix anything. He didn't offer to make it easy. But when he looked at her and said he believed in her, something eased in her chest. Just a little. Just enough.
She found herself smiling more around him—actual smiles, not the guarded, polite kind. And she'd started telling him things she hadn't even realized she remembered: stories from her childhood, nights she'd gone hungry, the first dish she ever learned to make because there was nothing else in the pantry but flour, eggs, and desperation. She didn't tell those stories to most people. Hell, she didn't tell them to anyone. But with Adrian? She didn't feel judged. Still, she kept part of herself tucked away. She couldn't hand it all over. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But she wasn't pushing him away, either. The door had cracked open—and instead of slamming it shut, she found herself quietly wondering what it would mean to let him in a little more.
So as she sat there, chin lifted in challenge, but heart pounding with something warmer, heavier, she gave him one more look—this one softer, more sincere.
"Your arms, you must have a daily workout routine.” She commented. She had been analyzing him of course. “Working out is important, at least I like to think so.”
"Alright," she said, voice low but edged with conviction. "Let me know when you're ready for me to show you what I got. Because this?"—she gestured subtly at the half-eaten plate in front of her—"It's good. I'll give it that. Better than a lot of other places but it’s missing something. You’ll see what I mean once you taste my pasta.” She casually licked the pasta sauce from her fork and set it down. She was fine eating, she didn’t necessarily eat much anyway.
There was no bravado in her tone—just something stronger. Something forged in the many nights in her childhood kitchen, every burned fingertip, every long night where pasta was more than a meal—it was survival. It was control. It was home.
She leaned in just a little, her gaze holding his, a quiet heat building behind her eyes. "I’m actually a bit excited. I never really get to cook for anyone but my mom and teacher. I can’t wait for more constructive feedback. I’m sure your palate is quite seasoned and exotic. I trust you know what you’re talking about when it comes to flavors.” And she meant it. Every word. But beneath her playful defiance, a deeper current stirred.
Adrian's belief in her—it rattled her more than she wanted to admit. It wasn't the kind of belief people usually offered her, the empty, pat-on-the-head kind. No. He looked at her like he saw her. Like he understood the parts of her she didn't show freely—the stubborn edges, the sleepless grit, the weight of expectations no one else ever offered to carry. And more than that, he trusted her. That was the part that hit hardest. He trusted she could deliver. That she would.
Delilah pushed some of the loose strands of her hair back from hr grace. The light waves fell back into place easily. Her chocolate brown eyes stayed on Adrian. Even in this setting she noticed how well put together he was. His posture, his composure. Adrian had become a kind of unexpected calm in the storm of her life. School was still pressure. The future was still uncertain. But there was something about him—this man who spoke with the gravity of experience and listened with the patience of someone who'd earned their silence—that made her feel like maybe she wasn't so alone in all of it. Like maybe she didn't have to grind her way forward completely on her own anymore.
Maybe he can be somewhat of a mentor or someone to go to for guidance. She thought and titled her head a bit. He didn't promise to fix anything. He didn't offer to make it easy. But when he looked at her and said he believed in her, something eased in her chest. Just a little. Just enough.
She found herself smiling more around him—actual smiles, not the guarded, polite kind. And she'd started telling him things she hadn't even realized she remembered: stories from her childhood, nights she'd gone hungry, the first dish she ever learned to make because there was nothing else in the pantry but flour, eggs, and desperation. She didn't tell those stories to most people. Hell, she didn't tell them to anyone. But with Adrian? She didn't feel judged. Still, she kept part of herself tucked away. She couldn't hand it all over. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But she wasn't pushing him away, either. The door had cracked open—and instead of slamming it shut, she found herself quietly wondering what it would mean to let him in a little more.
So as she sat there, chin lifted in challenge, but heart pounding with something warmer, heavier, she gave him one more look—this one softer, more sincere.
"Your arms, you must have a daily workout routine.” She commented. She had been analyzing him of course. “Working out is important, at least I like to think so.”
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian listened, truly listened, in a way he seldom had before. Her stories came gently at first, like the steady trickle of rain before a storm. And then, all at once, they were flooding the space between them - memories from a life that hadn't been wrapped in privilege or safety. There was something raw in the way she spoke, like she wasn't performing for him but simply laying down the bricks of her past in careful rows, inviting him to see what had built her. She told him about the nights she'd gone hungry as a child, the gnawing ache in her belly dulled only by sleep or distraction, never truly forgotten. He pictured the quiet frustration of that kind of lack - poverty not just in terms of money but in the stability that others took for granted. It wasn't drama. It wasn't trauma served with a dramatic flourish. It was matter-of-fact, and that somehow made it even more affecting.
Then came the story of the first meal she ever learned to make. Not because someone taught her, not because it was fun, but because there had been nothing else in the house - just flour, eggs, and desperation. That combination - so stark, so elemental - lodged itself in Adrian's chest like a seed taking root in too-dry soil. He imagined her in that kitchen, smaller, thinner, determined. The image refused to leave him. And what surprised him most, what kept catching him off guard with a quiet force, was how captivated he became by these ordinary things. Normally, his interest in others was cursory, polite at best, calculated at worst. Conversations were games to him - ways of gathering information, learning angles, preparing plays. But with her, the calculus didn't exist. He wasn't trying to win. He wasn't trying to be seen. He was just... interested. Genuinely. Deeply.
And it was disarming. In thirty-five years, he had never felt quite like this - not even close. People bored him. Their stories often blurred into each other: the jobs they hated, the vacations they dreamed of, the relationships that either failed or clung on out of habit. But she was different. She carried her life with an ease that came only from having fought hard for it, and yet there was no self-pity in her. No bitterness. Just an unspoken strength he couldn't help but admire.
Then there was the comment she made about his arms - offhand, maybe, but not unintentional. It caught him off guard. He hadn't expected that from her. She didn't strike him as someone who paid much attention to surface-level things, much less commented on them. She'd seemed too analytical, too grounded for that kind of flirtation. And yet, there it was - a sudden, piercing observation that made him wonder if it meant something more.
"Every day. I cannot remember the last day I did not do something physical. And yes, it is extremely important."
His response to her comment had come quickly, instinctively, but with a subtle undercurrent of something he hadn't intended to give away. It was true, of course - he moved every day. He trained, he lifted, he pushed himself until the body ached and the mind settled. The discipline wasn't just about the muscles or the shape of him; it was about the control, the order it brought him. In the chaos of his life, physical exertion was his anchor. Still, the way she had looked at him when she said it, the curve of her mouth, the slight narrowing of her eyes - it lingered. It wasn't just about his physique. That would have been too simple. No, he suspected it was more layered than that. She saw past what most people admired, down to the obsessive edge beneath. And instead of turning away, she seemed intrigued.
It unnerved him more than he'd admit. He had taken a moment then, just a breath between them, before adding with a smirk he barely felt:
"OK, Miss Analytic – what is your guilty pleasure?"
But even that playful jab had come from somewhere deeper. He wasn't teasing to provoke. He was trying to pry open a door without pushing too hard. He wanted to know more - how someone like her, with such clarity, allowed herself to be soft, to be indulgent. What made her lose control, if anything did. He wanted to know what she craved when no one was watching. Because, god, there was something about her that left him restless.
Not just the way she carried herself or the way her voice dipped low when she got serious, but the way she made him feel - like she had already gotten under his skin and was waiting there, watching. She made him feel naked in the most unnerving, thrilling way. Not stripped of clothing, but stripped of defence. That was the difference. And he hadn't decided yet if it was terrifying or addictive. But the weight of her gaze, the echo of her words, the strange comfort of her presence - they stayed with him, long after the conversation had moved on. Like she'd written something inside him, soft and unspoken. Something that didn't fade.
Then came the story of the first meal she ever learned to make. Not because someone taught her, not because it was fun, but because there had been nothing else in the house - just flour, eggs, and desperation. That combination - so stark, so elemental - lodged itself in Adrian's chest like a seed taking root in too-dry soil. He imagined her in that kitchen, smaller, thinner, determined. The image refused to leave him. And what surprised him most, what kept catching him off guard with a quiet force, was how captivated he became by these ordinary things. Normally, his interest in others was cursory, polite at best, calculated at worst. Conversations were games to him - ways of gathering information, learning angles, preparing plays. But with her, the calculus didn't exist. He wasn't trying to win. He wasn't trying to be seen. He was just... interested. Genuinely. Deeply.
And it was disarming. In thirty-five years, he had never felt quite like this - not even close. People bored him. Their stories often blurred into each other: the jobs they hated, the vacations they dreamed of, the relationships that either failed or clung on out of habit. But she was different. She carried her life with an ease that came only from having fought hard for it, and yet there was no self-pity in her. No bitterness. Just an unspoken strength he couldn't help but admire.
Then there was the comment she made about his arms - offhand, maybe, but not unintentional. It caught him off guard. He hadn't expected that from her. She didn't strike him as someone who paid much attention to surface-level things, much less commented on them. She'd seemed too analytical, too grounded for that kind of flirtation. And yet, there it was - a sudden, piercing observation that made him wonder if it meant something more.
"Every day. I cannot remember the last day I did not do something physical. And yes, it is extremely important."
His response to her comment had come quickly, instinctively, but with a subtle undercurrent of something he hadn't intended to give away. It was true, of course - he moved every day. He trained, he lifted, he pushed himself until the body ached and the mind settled. The discipline wasn't just about the muscles or the shape of him; it was about the control, the order it brought him. In the chaos of his life, physical exertion was his anchor. Still, the way she had looked at him when she said it, the curve of her mouth, the slight narrowing of her eyes - it lingered. It wasn't just about his physique. That would have been too simple. No, he suspected it was more layered than that. She saw past what most people admired, down to the obsessive edge beneath. And instead of turning away, she seemed intrigued.
It unnerved him more than he'd admit. He had taken a moment then, just a breath between them, before adding with a smirk he barely felt:
"OK, Miss Analytic – what is your guilty pleasure?"
But even that playful jab had come from somewhere deeper. He wasn't teasing to provoke. He was trying to pry open a door without pushing too hard. He wanted to know more - how someone like her, with such clarity, allowed herself to be soft, to be indulgent. What made her lose control, if anything did. He wanted to know what she craved when no one was watching. Because, god, there was something about her that left him restless.
Not just the way she carried herself or the way her voice dipped low when she got serious, but the way she made him feel - like she had already gotten under his skin and was waiting there, watching. She made him feel naked in the most unnerving, thrilling way. Not stripped of clothing, but stripped of defence. That was the difference. And he hadn't decided yet if it was terrifying or addictive. But the weight of her gaze, the echo of her words, the strange comfort of her presence - they stayed with him, long after the conversation had moved on. Like she'd written something inside him, soft and unspoken. Something that didn't fade.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah nodded her head to his answer. It was clear that he was active, she could tell by the look of his body even when clothed. Her gaze lingered, steady and unflinching, on the man across from her. She was reading him, again. Not the obvious tells — not the half-smirk, or the lean in his posture, or even the low timbre of his voice at times — but something subtler. Something under his words.
A moment later, she nodded once, as if answering a question she hadn't said out loud. "I understand that," she said, her voice low but clear. "The movement. The rhythm of it. The way pushing your body quiets everything else. I use it the same way. Not for the adrenaline, not really. For the stillness that follows. After enough exertion, the noise in my head dies down — and that's when I feel like myself again. Or the closest version I know how to be."
Her fingers grazed her wrist, thoughtful, not fidgeting — she didn't fidget. It was more like she needed to reconnect with her body for a second, as if her thoughts had drifted too far ahead of her and she was reeling them back.
Delilah could over think things sometimes and that’s when you know her guard was back up. She could assume the worst of things but she stopped to think about things logically she would realize how ridiculous her overthinking could be.
A small breath, not quite a laugh, escaped her when he threw that little jab — Miss Analytic — into the mix. She didn't look offended. If anything, she seemed almost… curious. As though she were tracing the shape of his words for hidden meaning.
"Are you teasing me Mr. Wolfe?” She asked and looked directly at him. Of course she knew he wasn’t. It wasn’t a question meant to be answered. She smiled and waved it off because it did mean nothing at all. Gently she folded her arms across her chest — not defensively, this was comfort for her. Most would assume she had an attitude but this was Delilah and she did what felt comfortable for her.
"Guilty pleasures," she repeated, mulling the phrase. "It's a funny term. As if pleasure requires guilt to be legitimate. As if we need to excuse the things that make us feel good just because they don't align with who we think we are." She shifted slightly, her voice quieting but becoming more precise — like she was tightening the focus of a lens.
"I have a few. Of course I do. Doesn't everyone? It just depends on what you want to know. Are you asking what I reach for when I want to disappear? Or what I crave when I want to feel something sharp, something real? Are you asking me what I hide, or what I've stopped trying to?"
Her gaze held his now — direct, unblinking. There was no flirtation in her tone, not exactly. It was too sincere for that. "Because if you're asking what makes me lose control… that's a different question. And I don't lose control easily.” She let that linger before finally — finally — offering a hint of a smile. Not coy, not evasive. Just quiet. True. "Ok ok. I’m thinking about this way too much.” A soft chuckle left her lips. “Here’s a simple one. Music. I love music. I love to sing. And yes, I sing alone, mostly. And I'm not bad at it. Better than you'd probably guess.”
That answer seemed easy enough. It wasn’t something she needed to hide or felt uncomfortable sharing. Most people didn’t know this about her anyway so she didn’t mind sharing it. Even though she loved singing cooking was where she found inspiration, her passion, her drive. Cooking is where she is allowed to feel every emotion possible. It gives her meaning, it gives her satisfaction.
A soft smirk appeared on her face. “Are you looking for something a bit more juicer in a sense?” She asked. “I really don’t one. I’m not that interesting.” She gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, she titled her head as she began to thinking about his question again. “I mean sex, good sex can be a guilty pleasure right?” Her question was serious. She wasn’t trying to flirt or be funny. She meant what she said. “But it has to be good sex. Not just any sex.” She felt as though she answered his question well enough. She was honest and did her best not to shy away from his question.
“What is your guilty pleasure?” She asked.
A moment later, she nodded once, as if answering a question she hadn't said out loud. "I understand that," she said, her voice low but clear. "The movement. The rhythm of it. The way pushing your body quiets everything else. I use it the same way. Not for the adrenaline, not really. For the stillness that follows. After enough exertion, the noise in my head dies down — and that's when I feel like myself again. Or the closest version I know how to be."
Her fingers grazed her wrist, thoughtful, not fidgeting — she didn't fidget. It was more like she needed to reconnect with her body for a second, as if her thoughts had drifted too far ahead of her and she was reeling them back.
Delilah could over think things sometimes and that’s when you know her guard was back up. She could assume the worst of things but she stopped to think about things logically she would realize how ridiculous her overthinking could be.
A small breath, not quite a laugh, escaped her when he threw that little jab — Miss Analytic — into the mix. She didn't look offended. If anything, she seemed almost… curious. As though she were tracing the shape of his words for hidden meaning.
"Are you teasing me Mr. Wolfe?” She asked and looked directly at him. Of course she knew he wasn’t. It wasn’t a question meant to be answered. She smiled and waved it off because it did mean nothing at all. Gently she folded her arms across her chest — not defensively, this was comfort for her. Most would assume she had an attitude but this was Delilah and she did what felt comfortable for her.
"Guilty pleasures," she repeated, mulling the phrase. "It's a funny term. As if pleasure requires guilt to be legitimate. As if we need to excuse the things that make us feel good just because they don't align with who we think we are." She shifted slightly, her voice quieting but becoming more precise — like she was tightening the focus of a lens.
"I have a few. Of course I do. Doesn't everyone? It just depends on what you want to know. Are you asking what I reach for when I want to disappear? Or what I crave when I want to feel something sharp, something real? Are you asking me what I hide, or what I've stopped trying to?"
Her gaze held his now — direct, unblinking. There was no flirtation in her tone, not exactly. It was too sincere for that. "Because if you're asking what makes me lose control… that's a different question. And I don't lose control easily.” She let that linger before finally — finally — offering a hint of a smile. Not coy, not evasive. Just quiet. True. "Ok ok. I’m thinking about this way too much.” A soft chuckle left her lips. “Here’s a simple one. Music. I love music. I love to sing. And yes, I sing alone, mostly. And I'm not bad at it. Better than you'd probably guess.”
That answer seemed easy enough. It wasn’t something she needed to hide or felt uncomfortable sharing. Most people didn’t know this about her anyway so she didn’t mind sharing it. Even though she loved singing cooking was where she found inspiration, her passion, her drive. Cooking is where she is allowed to feel every emotion possible. It gives her meaning, it gives her satisfaction.
A soft smirk appeared on her face. “Are you looking for something a bit more juicer in a sense?” She asked. “I really don’t one. I’m not that interesting.” She gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, she titled her head as she began to thinking about his question again. “I mean sex, good sex can be a guilty pleasure right?” Her question was serious. She wasn’t trying to flirt or be funny. She meant what she said. “But it has to be good sex. Not just any sex.” She felt as though she answered his question well enough. She was honest and did her best not to shy away from his question.
“What is your guilty pleasure?” She asked.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Delilah's ramble about guilty pleasures coaxed a subtle smile from Adrian, the kind of smile that came not from amusement but from something deeper - something quieter. He listened, attentive not just to the words but to the current beneath them. She was opening up. Not in the shallow way people sometimes perform vulnerability to be liked, but with that rare honesty that slipped out unguarded. It pleased him, more than he cared to admit. Not because it gave him leverage, but because it meant she was beginning to trust him.
Trust, from someone like Delilah, wasn't offered easily. He knew that instinctively. She was too intelligent, too careful, too well-armoured by the world. So when she let herself meander into personal admissions, even light-hearted ones like guilty pleasures, it felt like witnessing a lock slowly turning. The sort of thing most men would overlook, but not him. Adrian had built his life and fortune on knowing when to pay attention.
Then came the line, half-teasing, delivered like a throwaway but landing squarely between them: "A singing performance to go with the dinner? How could a man say no?"
Of course, he wasn't really expecting her to burst into song. He knew the way she guarded that side of herself, the creative part, the sensitive underlayer she tucked away beneath polished elegance and razor wit. Still, it thrilled him to hear her even hint at it. Not because he imagined coaxing it out of her anytime soon, but because the idea had been offered at all. Even hypothetically, it was a signal. A sign that her walls were lowering, inch by careful inch.
But it was what followed that truly turned the tide of their conversation. Her comment about sex - casual in tone but weighted, threaded with subtext - shifted the atmosphere entirely. The tension between them, always present in the background, now stood centre stage. Delilah wasn't one to flirt clumsily or provoke without purpose. So if she was steering the subject into more dangerous waters, it wasn't by accident. Adrian knew the risks. They were both careful people, slow to reveal, slower still to pursue anything that might unravel them. And yet here they were, brushing against the edge of something that could easily combust.
Sex. It wasn't a topic he shied from, but with her it was different. The stakes were higher, the implications heavier. Her words made him think - not of the act, but of what it had always meant to him. Power. Control. A domain where he could assert himself without apology, without compromise. For a man like Adrian, whose life had been defined by calculated dominance - corporate takeovers, financial precision, the shaping of empires - it made sense that even intimacy had followed that same logic. But what she was suggesting, in her tone and in her phrasing, was something else entirely. Something vulnerable. Shared. It made him pause. Did he even know what good sex was, in the way she meant it? Had he ever allowed himself to experience it as surrender, not just conquest?
When it came time for him to respond, he leaned into the honesty she'd offered, the quiet disarming that had begun between them.
"My guilty pleasure?" He let the question hang in the air a moment, letting it roll through his thoughts before answering. "It's having someone disarm me. Even just a little."
He smiled, but there was no mockery in it.
"People assume that for a man with wealth and influence, pleasure comes from excess—cars, art, curated depravity. And I won't lie. I've indulged. Women who knew how to obey before I even asked."
He exhaled quietly, as if punctuating the thought.
"But the real guilty pleasure - the one I don't speak aloud? It's when control slips. When someone touches a part of me I didn't realise was exposed. When the balance shifts - not because I've allowed it, but because they simply can. That kind of intimacy is rarer than all the rest combined."
He paused again, and this time the silence said even more than his words.
"And when it comes to sex?" He let the word settle, heavy and deliberate. "Good sex isn't about performance. Not really. It's about being known. Seen. And then still wanted, even in that stripped state. I've had women on their knees, obedient, eager. But the ones who linger in my memory? They were the ones who challenged me. Who refused to be tamed."
It wasn't the sort of admission he offered lightly. But then, she wasn't the sort of woman who settled for surface-level answers. Delilah demanded authenticity, even in jest, and that in itself made her a guilty pleasure unlike any other. He found himself wondering what her version of good sex looked like. Whether it was romantic, or feral, or something in between. Whether she craved slow touch and eye contact, or whether her softness masked something much darker. He wouldn't ask - not yet - but he couldn't deny the question had taken root. The line between them had shifted. Where there had once been playful banter, there was now something more electric. Still undefined, still cloaked in the plausible deniability of wit—but real, nonetheless.
He could feel it. She wasn't just opening up. She was letting him in. And that, above all else, was a pleasure he had never expected to feel guilty about.
Trust, from someone like Delilah, wasn't offered easily. He knew that instinctively. She was too intelligent, too careful, too well-armoured by the world. So when she let herself meander into personal admissions, even light-hearted ones like guilty pleasures, it felt like witnessing a lock slowly turning. The sort of thing most men would overlook, but not him. Adrian had built his life and fortune on knowing when to pay attention.
Then came the line, half-teasing, delivered like a throwaway but landing squarely between them: "A singing performance to go with the dinner? How could a man say no?"
Of course, he wasn't really expecting her to burst into song. He knew the way she guarded that side of herself, the creative part, the sensitive underlayer she tucked away beneath polished elegance and razor wit. Still, it thrilled him to hear her even hint at it. Not because he imagined coaxing it out of her anytime soon, but because the idea had been offered at all. Even hypothetically, it was a signal. A sign that her walls were lowering, inch by careful inch.
But it was what followed that truly turned the tide of their conversation. Her comment about sex - casual in tone but weighted, threaded with subtext - shifted the atmosphere entirely. The tension between them, always present in the background, now stood centre stage. Delilah wasn't one to flirt clumsily or provoke without purpose. So if she was steering the subject into more dangerous waters, it wasn't by accident. Adrian knew the risks. They were both careful people, slow to reveal, slower still to pursue anything that might unravel them. And yet here they were, brushing against the edge of something that could easily combust.
Sex. It wasn't a topic he shied from, but with her it was different. The stakes were higher, the implications heavier. Her words made him think - not of the act, but of what it had always meant to him. Power. Control. A domain where he could assert himself without apology, without compromise. For a man like Adrian, whose life had been defined by calculated dominance - corporate takeovers, financial precision, the shaping of empires - it made sense that even intimacy had followed that same logic. But what she was suggesting, in her tone and in her phrasing, was something else entirely. Something vulnerable. Shared. It made him pause. Did he even know what good sex was, in the way she meant it? Had he ever allowed himself to experience it as surrender, not just conquest?
When it came time for him to respond, he leaned into the honesty she'd offered, the quiet disarming that had begun between them.
"My guilty pleasure?" He let the question hang in the air a moment, letting it roll through his thoughts before answering. "It's having someone disarm me. Even just a little."
He smiled, but there was no mockery in it.
"People assume that for a man with wealth and influence, pleasure comes from excess—cars, art, curated depravity. And I won't lie. I've indulged. Women who knew how to obey before I even asked."
He exhaled quietly, as if punctuating the thought.
"But the real guilty pleasure - the one I don't speak aloud? It's when control slips. When someone touches a part of me I didn't realise was exposed. When the balance shifts - not because I've allowed it, but because they simply can. That kind of intimacy is rarer than all the rest combined."
He paused again, and this time the silence said even more than his words.
"And when it comes to sex?" He let the word settle, heavy and deliberate. "Good sex isn't about performance. Not really. It's about being known. Seen. And then still wanted, even in that stripped state. I've had women on their knees, obedient, eager. But the ones who linger in my memory? They were the ones who challenged me. Who refused to be tamed."
It wasn't the sort of admission he offered lightly. But then, she wasn't the sort of woman who settled for surface-level answers. Delilah demanded authenticity, even in jest, and that in itself made her a guilty pleasure unlike any other. He found himself wondering what her version of good sex looked like. Whether it was romantic, or feral, or something in between. Whether she craved slow touch and eye contact, or whether her softness masked something much darker. He wouldn't ask - not yet - but he couldn't deny the question had taken root. The line between them had shifted. Where there had once been playful banter, there was now something more electric. Still undefined, still cloaked in the plausible deniability of wit—but real, nonetheless.
He could feel it. She wasn't just opening up. She was letting him in. And that, above all else, was a pleasure he had never expected to feel guilty about.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
She didn't sing in front of people, didn't bare her soul, didn't let anyone crack the surface of the persona she spent years polishing to perfection. And she certainly didn't spend nights wondering what sex might feel like when it wasn't about performance, or control, or mutual detachment. She wasn't going to sing. She'd told him that, teased it with mock bravado. No chance. It was too exposing. Too intimate. She could flirt, she could provoke, she could keep things right at the edge—but to share her voice? Her real voice? That would be too much.
She hadn't meant to wander into intimacy. The whole dinner had been casual, layered with just enough flirtation to keep things light, a touch cerebral, safely tethered to the kind of cleverness she knew how to wield like a blade. Guilty pleasures—a harmless topic, a little peek behind the curtain. Low stakes.
She certainly hadn't expected him to match her with something that deep. Something that bare.
When Adrian spoke—really spoke—Delilah felt something shift low in her stomach, subtle but undeniable. His voice was calm, composed as ever, but what he said? It disarmed her more than any wandering hand or brazen look ever could. And that was the irony, wasn't it? He'd said that was his guilty pleasure—being disarmed. Losing control. Having someone touch the part of him he didn't know was vulnerable. It wasn't the answer she'd expected. Not even close. She'd imagined something sophisticated, maybe predictably decadent. Some curated kink that women bent to with elegant precision. But instead, he confessed to wanting someone who wouldn't bend. Someone who would see him, undo him, challenge him.
She blinked, slow, measured—masking her own unraveling beneath cool stillness. But her mind was racing. Why the hell is he single then? It wasn't just a passing thought. It hit her hard. A man like Adrian—wealthy, brilliant, composed to the point of being infuriating—admitting that he craved something real, something vulnerable, something uncontrollable… That wasn't what powerful men said to earn favor. That wasn't a line. It felt too honest for that. Too personal.
So if he found someone who gave him that… why did she leave? Or worse… why did he?
She didn't want to care. But she did.
And more unsettling than that—she found herself wondering whether she could be that woman. Whether she wanted to be. She'd always told herself vulnerability wasn't sexy.
Again, the question hovered on the edge of Verena's lips long before she gave it permission to slip out. She sat back just enough to study him—Adrian, with his sharp lines and clean control, with the residual vulnerability still clinging to the corners of his mouth from what he'd just confessed. His words had stayed with her, curled around her thoughts like smoke that refused to dissipate.
Women who obeyed before he asked. Control slipping. Being known… and still wanted. It had unsettled her, but not in the way he'd feared. It hadn't scared her. If anything, it had cracked something open inside her too. That he wanted that kind of undoing? That he craved it? It rewrote the entire equation of who she thought he was beneath all the composure. But that's what made the question impossible to ignore.
Because if he'd had those women—if some woman had once made him feel like that, seen him like that, touched the place where his control gave way to something raw and real—then…
Why was he still here?
Verena didn't speak right away. She let the silence stretch, long and deliberate, watching him. Then, when his eyes flicked to hers—cautious, still reading her like a live wire—she asked it. Low. Even. Intentional. "If you've had women like that before… ones who challenged you, made you feel that kind of intimacy…" she paused, gaze never leaving his, "why are you still single?"
She let the words settle, not like a weapon, but a key turned slowly in a door. "You could have indulged in that kind of guilty pleasure for the rest of your life. So why not commit to the woman who gave it to you?" There was no accusation in her tone. Just curiosity—quiet, direct, impossible to dodge.
Because something didn't add up. For a man so calculated, so precise, who could have nearly anyone, who had known that kind of visceral, intimate power dynamic…Why walk away from it? Or worse—why let it walk away? She didn't press further. She didn't need to. The question itself was enough. It carried everything beneath it—what she feared, what she hoped, what she needed to understand about him.
She hadn't meant to wander into intimacy. The whole dinner had been casual, layered with just enough flirtation to keep things light, a touch cerebral, safely tethered to the kind of cleverness she knew how to wield like a blade. Guilty pleasures—a harmless topic, a little peek behind the curtain. Low stakes.
She certainly hadn't expected him to match her with something that deep. Something that bare.
When Adrian spoke—really spoke—Delilah felt something shift low in her stomach, subtle but undeniable. His voice was calm, composed as ever, but what he said? It disarmed her more than any wandering hand or brazen look ever could. And that was the irony, wasn't it? He'd said that was his guilty pleasure—being disarmed. Losing control. Having someone touch the part of him he didn't know was vulnerable. It wasn't the answer she'd expected. Not even close. She'd imagined something sophisticated, maybe predictably decadent. Some curated kink that women bent to with elegant precision. But instead, he confessed to wanting someone who wouldn't bend. Someone who would see him, undo him, challenge him.
She blinked, slow, measured—masking her own unraveling beneath cool stillness. But her mind was racing. Why the hell is he single then? It wasn't just a passing thought. It hit her hard. A man like Adrian—wealthy, brilliant, composed to the point of being infuriating—admitting that he craved something real, something vulnerable, something uncontrollable… That wasn't what powerful men said to earn favor. That wasn't a line. It felt too honest for that. Too personal.
So if he found someone who gave him that… why did she leave? Or worse… why did he?
She didn't want to care. But she did.
And more unsettling than that—she found herself wondering whether she could be that woman. Whether she wanted to be. She'd always told herself vulnerability wasn't sexy.
Again, the question hovered on the edge of Verena's lips long before she gave it permission to slip out. She sat back just enough to study him—Adrian, with his sharp lines and clean control, with the residual vulnerability still clinging to the corners of his mouth from what he'd just confessed. His words had stayed with her, curled around her thoughts like smoke that refused to dissipate.
Women who obeyed before he asked. Control slipping. Being known… and still wanted. It had unsettled her, but not in the way he'd feared. It hadn't scared her. If anything, it had cracked something open inside her too. That he wanted that kind of undoing? That he craved it? It rewrote the entire equation of who she thought he was beneath all the composure. But that's what made the question impossible to ignore.
Because if he'd had those women—if some woman had once made him feel like that, seen him like that, touched the place where his control gave way to something raw and real—then…
Why was he still here?
Verena didn't speak right away. She let the silence stretch, long and deliberate, watching him. Then, when his eyes flicked to hers—cautious, still reading her like a live wire—she asked it. Low. Even. Intentional. "If you've had women like that before… ones who challenged you, made you feel that kind of intimacy…" she paused, gaze never leaving his, "why are you still single?"
She let the words settle, not like a weapon, but a key turned slowly in a door. "You could have indulged in that kind of guilty pleasure for the rest of your life. So why not commit to the woman who gave it to you?" There was no accusation in her tone. Just curiosity—quiet, direct, impossible to dodge.
Because something didn't add up. For a man so calculated, so precise, who could have nearly anyone, who had known that kind of visceral, intimate power dynamic…Why walk away from it? Or worse—why let it walk away? She didn't press further. She didn't need to. The question itself was enough. It carried everything beneath it—what she feared, what she hoped, what she needed to understand about him.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian checked his watch as she spoke - an instinct more than a dismissal, a subtle reminder of how tightly managed his time had become. Yet his gaze didn't drift far for long. He brought his eyes back to hers, sharp and discerning, absorbing her final words with the kind of attentiveness that suggested he wasn't just being polite. He was listening. Truly listening.
"I'll make you a deal," he said finally, his voice low and measured, with the ease of a man used to negotiating terms in boardrooms and behind closed doors. "When I get to taste your dish, and if it delivers, I will answer that question."
It wasn't a bluff, not entirely. But it was a delay, a hedge cloaked in charm. The truth was, he wasn't ready to answer that question. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. That particular part of him had been sealed off for so long that even the thought of revisiting it brought an uncomfortable tightness to his chest. He hadn't felt anything close to it in nearly fifteen years. He'd been Delilah's age then - idealistic, reckless, still convinced he could outrun the past and rewrite the future through sheer will alone. And in doing so, he'd burned bridges, some of which he still saw smouldering in his dreams. But a deal was a deal. And a promise, when spoken aloud, carried weight.
He allowed only a beat of silence before standing, careful and deliberate. "I'm afraid I must depart," he added, voice softer now but still precise. "But please stay. Order some dessert. The hostess will know to put it on my account." He left her with more than a parting sentiment. "I will be in touch about that kitchen space," he added over his shoulder. "My friend owes me a favour, so I will get you in very soon." Then, a final glance back: "Keep going. No matter what happens, keep going. The weak give up yards from the finish line."
And then he was gone. Outside, the night had begun its slow exhale, velvet and hushed, wrapping around the city like a secret. He called for his car, ignoring the lingering pulse of adrenaline in his veins. The conversation played on repeat in his mind, refusing to let go. There was something in the cadence of it, the rhythm they'd found together between the courses and the candour. The back-and-forth of light-hearted jokes, sharp insights, and unspoken truths. He hadn't expected it to hit as hard as it did. But it had. And now it lingered like the aftertaste of something decadent - something dangerous.
It wasn't just what they'd discussed. It was the way it had made him feel. The way she had drawn him in without force or flattery. The guilty pleasure conversation, the unexpected vulnerability that surfaced like a bruise beneath the skin. Why had he told her so much? Why had he admitted that his greatest fear was to live a life where he was never fully seen? Or worse, that he had been once - and he'd squandered it? He hadn't said that to anyone. Not even in the quiet of his own head. And yet, there it was, out in the open now, tethered to a woman who shouldn't have had that kind of access to him.
Back at his penthouse, he moved on instinct, loosening his tie and stripping off the weight of his carefully curated exterior. He walked straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the steam begin to swell before stepping inside. The hot water did little to soothe him. If anything, it only heightened the dissonance. So he reached for the cold tap and forced himself to endure the shock, letting the icy spray jolt him back into something resembling clarity. Clarity. That elusive thing he once believed he could master with control - of his environment, his decisions, his image. But clarity had a way of slipping through the cracks the moment someone truly saw you. Delilah had looked at him - not at the name, or the net worth, or the curated persona - but at him. And in that moment, a long-buried truth had emerged: he was tired. Tired of performing, tired of pretending that the isolation was noble, or that his detachment was a sign of strength. Tired of protecting a heart he swore was better off behind lock and key, only to find himself now wondering what it might cost to open it again.
He dried off in silence, the penthouse quiet around him, filled with all the curated comforts money could buy - but none of the warmth that conversation had stirred. She was still in his head, and not just as a curiosity or a challenge. She had unsettled something in him. Something real. And that was the most dangerous part of all.
He poured himself a drink, neat and strong, and walked to the window overlooking the city. It glittered below him - restless, alive, unforgiving. Just like him. Or at least, the version of himself he had become. But now, that version was under scrutiny. A younger woman with sharp instincts and an unapologetic voice had pressed her finger right into the sore spot he'd spent over a decade ignoring. He didn't know what would come of it. He didn't know if he wanted it to lead anywhere. But he did know one thing. He would taste her dish. And if it delivered? He'd keep his word. Even if the truth scared him more than he dared admit.
"I'll make you a deal," he said finally, his voice low and measured, with the ease of a man used to negotiating terms in boardrooms and behind closed doors. "When I get to taste your dish, and if it delivers, I will answer that question."
It wasn't a bluff, not entirely. But it was a delay, a hedge cloaked in charm. The truth was, he wasn't ready to answer that question. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. That particular part of him had been sealed off for so long that even the thought of revisiting it brought an uncomfortable tightness to his chest. He hadn't felt anything close to it in nearly fifteen years. He'd been Delilah's age then - idealistic, reckless, still convinced he could outrun the past and rewrite the future through sheer will alone. And in doing so, he'd burned bridges, some of which he still saw smouldering in his dreams. But a deal was a deal. And a promise, when spoken aloud, carried weight.
He allowed only a beat of silence before standing, careful and deliberate. "I'm afraid I must depart," he added, voice softer now but still precise. "But please stay. Order some dessert. The hostess will know to put it on my account." He left her with more than a parting sentiment. "I will be in touch about that kitchen space," he added over his shoulder. "My friend owes me a favour, so I will get you in very soon." Then, a final glance back: "Keep going. No matter what happens, keep going. The weak give up yards from the finish line."
And then he was gone. Outside, the night had begun its slow exhale, velvet and hushed, wrapping around the city like a secret. He called for his car, ignoring the lingering pulse of adrenaline in his veins. The conversation played on repeat in his mind, refusing to let go. There was something in the cadence of it, the rhythm they'd found together between the courses and the candour. The back-and-forth of light-hearted jokes, sharp insights, and unspoken truths. He hadn't expected it to hit as hard as it did. But it had. And now it lingered like the aftertaste of something decadent - something dangerous.
It wasn't just what they'd discussed. It was the way it had made him feel. The way she had drawn him in without force or flattery. The guilty pleasure conversation, the unexpected vulnerability that surfaced like a bruise beneath the skin. Why had he told her so much? Why had he admitted that his greatest fear was to live a life where he was never fully seen? Or worse, that he had been once - and he'd squandered it? He hadn't said that to anyone. Not even in the quiet of his own head. And yet, there it was, out in the open now, tethered to a woman who shouldn't have had that kind of access to him.
Back at his penthouse, he moved on instinct, loosening his tie and stripping off the weight of his carefully curated exterior. He walked straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the steam begin to swell before stepping inside. The hot water did little to soothe him. If anything, it only heightened the dissonance. So he reached for the cold tap and forced himself to endure the shock, letting the icy spray jolt him back into something resembling clarity. Clarity. That elusive thing he once believed he could master with control - of his environment, his decisions, his image. But clarity had a way of slipping through the cracks the moment someone truly saw you. Delilah had looked at him - not at the name, or the net worth, or the curated persona - but at him. And in that moment, a long-buried truth had emerged: he was tired. Tired of performing, tired of pretending that the isolation was noble, or that his detachment was a sign of strength. Tired of protecting a heart he swore was better off behind lock and key, only to find himself now wondering what it might cost to open it again.
He dried off in silence, the penthouse quiet around him, filled with all the curated comforts money could buy - but none of the warmth that conversation had stirred. She was still in his head, and not just as a curiosity or a challenge. She had unsettled something in him. Something real. And that was the most dangerous part of all.
He poured himself a drink, neat and strong, and walked to the window overlooking the city. It glittered below him - restless, alive, unforgiving. Just like him. Or at least, the version of himself he had become. But now, that version was under scrutiny. A younger woman with sharp instincts and an unapologetic voice had pressed her finger right into the sore spot he'd spent over a decade ignoring. He didn't know what would come of it. He didn't know if he wanted it to lead anywhere. But he did know one thing. He would taste her dish. And if it delivered? He'd keep his word. Even if the truth scared him more than he dared admit.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah watched Adrian go, his parting words echoing in her mind long after the door shut behind him. "Keep going. The weak give up yards from the finish line." It wasn't the first time someone had told her to keep going. But it was the first time it didn't feel condescending. It felt… intentional. Like he meant it. Like he saw what it took for her to show up in the first place.
She sat there for a moment, alone at the table, letting the buzz of the restaurant swell back around her. The low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the quiet jazz murmuring through hidden speakers. The world hadn't stopped just because something had shifted between them. The hostess approached, smiling politely. "Would you like to see the dessert menu, miss?" Delilah looked up, eyes soft but tired, and shook her head with a faint smile. "No. Thank you.” She could've. The offer was there. It was probably nothing to Adrian—an extra twenty bucks tacked onto a bill he wouldn't even glance at. But for her, it felt wrong. Not yet. She wasn't ready to be that comfortable. She didn't know what his attention meant yet, or how long it would last. And more than that, she didn't want to mistake kindness for ownership.
She stood, buttoned her coat, and stepped outside into the cool night air. No private car waited for her. No sleek chauffeur or climate-controlled interior. Just the raw pulse of the city, exhaust in the air, lights flickering like the restless thoughts in her head. The walk to the station was quiet, her footsteps steady but deliberate. A subway ride home was nothing new. But tonight, her head was filled with the weight of that conversation—Adrian's gaze when he spoke of control, his admittance that being seen was his guilty pleasure. It surprised her, even unsettled her. A man like him—so composed, so guarded—longed to be disarmed.
So why is he still alone? Maybe he’s a bachelor. That wouldn’t be so crazy.
The question returned, unsatisfied. Maybe because he chose women who were easy to manage. Maybe because the moment someone truly saw him, he pulled back. Or maybe—maybe—he didn't believe he was worth staying for. She had so many thoughts going through her head. Besides she has met men like that before.
By the time she made it back to the house, the hallway was dark. She didn't need light to know what was waiting on the other side of the door. She could feel it. The lock clicked open, and the smell hit first—cheap gin and stale regret. She kicked her shoes off quietly and walked down the narrow hallway to her mother's room. Sure enough, there she was—sprawled across the hardwood floor in a tangle of limbs and blanket, a half-empty bottle of gin still clutched in her hand. Delilah sighed, not in frustration, but in resignation. She crouched beside her mother carefully, brushing graying hair from her face. Her mother's breath was steady, but thick with alcohol. One cheek was flushed from where it pressed into the cold floor.
Delilah didn't speak. She didn't scold. She'd learned long ago that shame had no place here. It changed nothing. It only deepened the distance. Instead, she slipped her arms around the frail body she'd once run to as a little girl and lifted gently. It wasn't easy—her mother wasn't heavy, but she was limp, uncooperative. Still, Delilah had done this enough times to know how to move her. She led her to the bed, tucked her in without a word, and removed the bottle from her fingers like a parent would a toy from a sleeping child.
For a long moment, she just stood there. Watching. The lines on her mother's face seemed deeper than usual. Her breath hiccuped softly, a faint, drunken whimper breaking through. Delilah reached down and adjusted the blanket. Her fingers lingered there. Then, slowly, she whispered, "I got you…even though you make me sick to my stomach.” It wasn't for her mother to hear. It was for herself. A reminder. A quiet promise.
She turned off the light and closed the door behind her, the soft click of it sealing the night into silence.
Back in her room, she pulled off her coat, let it fall across the chair. She didn't turn on the light. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and let the dark settle around her. Adrian had offered help. She'd accepted it. But this? This was the part of her life he hadn't seen. The part she wasn't sure he could ever really understand. And maybe that was okay. Because for now… she would keep going. Just like he said.
She sat there for a moment, alone at the table, letting the buzz of the restaurant swell back around her. The low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the quiet jazz murmuring through hidden speakers. The world hadn't stopped just because something had shifted between them. The hostess approached, smiling politely. "Would you like to see the dessert menu, miss?" Delilah looked up, eyes soft but tired, and shook her head with a faint smile. "No. Thank you.” She could've. The offer was there. It was probably nothing to Adrian—an extra twenty bucks tacked onto a bill he wouldn't even glance at. But for her, it felt wrong. Not yet. She wasn't ready to be that comfortable. She didn't know what his attention meant yet, or how long it would last. And more than that, she didn't want to mistake kindness for ownership.
She stood, buttoned her coat, and stepped outside into the cool night air. No private car waited for her. No sleek chauffeur or climate-controlled interior. Just the raw pulse of the city, exhaust in the air, lights flickering like the restless thoughts in her head. The walk to the station was quiet, her footsteps steady but deliberate. A subway ride home was nothing new. But tonight, her head was filled with the weight of that conversation—Adrian's gaze when he spoke of control, his admittance that being seen was his guilty pleasure. It surprised her, even unsettled her. A man like him—so composed, so guarded—longed to be disarmed.
So why is he still alone? Maybe he’s a bachelor. That wouldn’t be so crazy.
The question returned, unsatisfied. Maybe because he chose women who were easy to manage. Maybe because the moment someone truly saw him, he pulled back. Or maybe—maybe—he didn't believe he was worth staying for. She had so many thoughts going through her head. Besides she has met men like that before.
By the time she made it back to the house, the hallway was dark. She didn't need light to know what was waiting on the other side of the door. She could feel it. The lock clicked open, and the smell hit first—cheap gin and stale regret. She kicked her shoes off quietly and walked down the narrow hallway to her mother's room. Sure enough, there she was—sprawled across the hardwood floor in a tangle of limbs and blanket, a half-empty bottle of gin still clutched in her hand. Delilah sighed, not in frustration, but in resignation. She crouched beside her mother carefully, brushing graying hair from her face. Her mother's breath was steady, but thick with alcohol. One cheek was flushed from where it pressed into the cold floor.
Delilah didn't speak. She didn't scold. She'd learned long ago that shame had no place here. It changed nothing. It only deepened the distance. Instead, she slipped her arms around the frail body she'd once run to as a little girl and lifted gently. It wasn't easy—her mother wasn't heavy, but she was limp, uncooperative. Still, Delilah had done this enough times to know how to move her. She led her to the bed, tucked her in without a word, and removed the bottle from her fingers like a parent would a toy from a sleeping child.
For a long moment, she just stood there. Watching. The lines on her mother's face seemed deeper than usual. Her breath hiccuped softly, a faint, drunken whimper breaking through. Delilah reached down and adjusted the blanket. Her fingers lingered there. Then, slowly, she whispered, "I got you…even though you make me sick to my stomach.” It wasn't for her mother to hear. It was for herself. A reminder. A quiet promise.
She turned off the light and closed the door behind her, the soft click of it sealing the night into silence.
Back in her room, she pulled off her coat, let it fall across the chair. She didn't turn on the light. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and let the dark settle around her. Adrian had offered help. She'd accepted it. But this? This was the part of her life he hadn't seen. The part she wasn't sure he could ever really understand. And maybe that was okay. Because for now… she would keep going. Just like he said.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
The following morning, Adrian made good on his word.
It had been lingering in the back of his mind since Delilah had first told him - half-reluctantly, like it had cost her something to admit it - that she didn't have anywhere outside of class to practice. She could finesse a sauce blindfolded and break down a whole fish with the kind of economy that only came from hours on the knife, but outside the structure of school, she was boxed in. Her shared apartment didn't have the space. Her schedule didn't allow for begging scraps of time in the university kitchen. And even if it had, she wouldn't have. She wasn't the type to ask twice.
But Adrian had told her he'd sort something. She'd raised an eyebrow, sceptical, maybe even amused, and said nothing. Still, her eyes had lingered on him just long enough to register hope - raw, quiet, and dangerous. He wasn't about to let that go to waste. So he called Jack. Jack Hartley had a reputation, and not just because of his tattoos and expletive-heavy rants on seasonal produce. He was a chef's chef—fiercely independent, unpredictable, and respected enough to get away with both. Years ago, Jack had opened up his kitchen to young chefs - those hungry to experiment without the leash of a curriculum or the pressure of fine-dining service. It wasn't some glossy culinary lab for influencers. It was real, stainless steel and sweat, with good tools and no patience for bullshit.
Adrian had known Jack since their own undergrad days. They'd started together, drifted apart, and reconnected when ambition no longer looked like a straight line. Jack still owed him a favour or two, and Adrian was ready to call one in. The call was short. Jack didn't need a hard sell.
"You sure she's not gonna flake?" Jack asked, somewhere between a yawn and a drawl.
"She's the last person who would," Adrian replied.
"You said she's still in school?"
"Final term. But sharper than most her age."
"And she's serious?"
"Deadly."
There was a pause. Then, "Alright. Tell her she's got Tuesdays and Thursdays. Early mornings, before ten. Sundays too, after the rush. She fucks around, she's out. But if she's good, really good, I'll let her keep the slot."
"I wouldn't have called if she wasn't."
Jack chuckled. "You always did have a thing for ones with bite."
Adrian ignored that. "I'll send her the info."
When the line went dead, Adrian opened up her contact on his phone and started typing.
It had been lingering in the back of his mind since Delilah had first told him - half-reluctantly, like it had cost her something to admit it - that she didn't have anywhere outside of class to practice. She could finesse a sauce blindfolded and break down a whole fish with the kind of economy that only came from hours on the knife, but outside the structure of school, she was boxed in. Her shared apartment didn't have the space. Her schedule didn't allow for begging scraps of time in the university kitchen. And even if it had, she wouldn't have. She wasn't the type to ask twice.
But Adrian had told her he'd sort something. She'd raised an eyebrow, sceptical, maybe even amused, and said nothing. Still, her eyes had lingered on him just long enough to register hope - raw, quiet, and dangerous. He wasn't about to let that go to waste. So he called Jack. Jack Hartley had a reputation, and not just because of his tattoos and expletive-heavy rants on seasonal produce. He was a chef's chef—fiercely independent, unpredictable, and respected enough to get away with both. Years ago, Jack had opened up his kitchen to young chefs - those hungry to experiment without the leash of a curriculum or the pressure of fine-dining service. It wasn't some glossy culinary lab for influencers. It was real, stainless steel and sweat, with good tools and no patience for bullshit.
Adrian had known Jack since their own undergrad days. They'd started together, drifted apart, and reconnected when ambition no longer looked like a straight line. Jack still owed him a favour or two, and Adrian was ready to call one in. The call was short. Jack didn't need a hard sell.
"You sure she's not gonna flake?" Jack asked, somewhere between a yawn and a drawl.
"She's the last person who would," Adrian replied.
"You said she's still in school?"
"Final term. But sharper than most her age."
"And she's serious?"
"Deadly."
There was a pause. Then, "Alright. Tell her she's got Tuesdays and Thursdays. Early mornings, before ten. Sundays too, after the rush. She fucks around, she's out. But if she's good, really good, I'll let her keep the slot."
"I wouldn't have called if she wasn't."
Jack chuckled. "You always did have a thing for ones with bite."
Adrian ignored that. "I'll send her the info."
When the line went dead, Adrian opened up her contact on his phone and started typing.
Adrian [8:17 AM]:
You free Tuesday morning?
Delilah [8:19 AM]:
Depends. Why?
Adrian [8:21 AM]:
Got you a kitchen. Off-campus. Proper space. Jack Hartley's place.
Delilah [8:22 AM]:
You're joking.
Adrian [8:23 AM]:
Not even slightly. He runs a space at Stenton Yard. You'll have Tuesdays and Thursdays, mornings before 10. Sundays after 7.
Bring your own knives. Clean up after. He's not patient but he is fair. Use the time well, he'll keep the door open. Screw around, and you're done.
Delilah [8:25 AM]:
How did you—
Adrian [8:25 AM]:
I told you I'd sort it. I don't say shit I don't mean.
Delilah [8:27 AM]:
Thank you.
Adrian [8:28 AM]:
Don't thank me. Just prove me right.
He locked the phone and let it rest beside his coffee. The weight in his chest loosened a little. He wasn't looking for credit. That wasn't what this was about. But there was something satisfying in the idea that she would walk into that kitchen and finally have room to stretch - unobserved, ungraded, unfiltered. Just her and the flame and the steel. No ceiling except the one she set for herself. Delilah didn't need hand-holding. She needed a launchpad. And if this gave her even a fragment of what she was chasing - if it cut through the noise long enough for her talent to scream louder than her doubt - then it was worth it. Adrian had always believed in giving people the tools to build their own future. Quietly, without ceremony. And sometimes, the right space at the right time was more powerful than all the praise in the world.
He wasn't sure what she'd make in that kitchen. He only knew it would matter.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah stood outside the back entrance of Stenton Yard, her breath clouding in the cold morning air. She hadn't slept much—too many ideas, too many scraps of memory tumbling through her head. She clutched her knife roll like it was armor and felt the weight of her notes in her bag: hours of scribbled thoughts, half-recipes, moments from her life distilled into flavors.
The assignment had gnawed at her since it was first given. Create a dish that tells your story. Layered flavors. Multiple techniques. One component that pushes your limits. It sounded poetic, but it was pressure disguised as art. Still, she'd risen to worse. She wasn't here to impress anyone. She was here because Adrian had believed in her, and because she'd decided to believe in herself—at least enough to knock on this door.
She did, twice. The sound echoed into metal and silence. Moments later, the door creaked open. Jack Hartley stood in the frame. Taller than she expected. Tattoos snaked down both arms, apron already tied, a half-drunk coffee in one hand. His eyes swept over her in one quick, clinical look.
"You're early," he said.
"I figured better than late. Besides I don't like wasting time."
Jack grunted. "You got your knives?"
She held up the roll.
"Good. I don't lend mine.” He glanced at the clock inside. "You've got until 9:45. Kitchen opens at ten sharp for staff prep. You're not here to work for me, just don't get in my way."
"I won't."
"You better not." He stepped aside. "Come in."
The kitchen was a surprise. Sleek, modern, pristine. White tile floors. Deep blue cabinets. Marble counters with induction burners built seamlessly into the surface. State-of-the-art convection ovens. Japanese carbon steel knives on magnetic strips. Custom brass hardware. Not a tool out of place. This wasn't the kind of space Delilah had imagined—not the grimy basement grind she'd heard about in culinary war stories. This place gleamed. It was quiet, humming with potential. A sanctuary for people who knew how to move, how to respect space. She did.
Jack watched her as she set up at an unused station along the side wall. "Clean when you're done. Don't touch anything out for prep. Stay out of the walk-in when it gets close to opening. Other than that go in there. Take what you want but write down what you take so I know how much stock I have. I don't train people anymore," he said flatly, sipping his coffee.
"Understood. Also I'm not here to be trained," Delilah said, setting her knife roll on the polished counter. "I'm here to work." Jack gave a noncommittal grunt and disappeared toward the front of house. Delilah moved quickly, efficiently. She had too some of the money left over from what Adrian had given her to buy her own ingredients. She made sure to have enough to practice this dish at least 3 times. She laid out her ingredients: duck breast, pickled shallots, dried seaweed powder, fermented black garlic paste, a tangle of handmade soba she'd rolled late the night before. Everything pre-measured, labeled. Adrian had given her the space—she wasn't going to waste it fumbling.
She moved through the stations with quiet confidence. Searing, whisking, reducing. Steam rose in gentle bursts. Sauces came to life. Her fingers worked with sharp, deliberate speed, slicing through ginger like breath, her mind focused, tuned to timing and temperature. This dish was her. The soft umami of the soba—quiet, controlled, years of discipline in every strand. The sharpness of the pickled shallots—bright moments, jarring honesty. The duck, medium rare, crusted in her grandmother's pepper mix—boldness inherited.bThe black garlic foam—a challenge to herself. Molecular. Modern. Unforgiving. She'd failed it twice at home. Today, it bloomed.
By 9:35, she plated. Minimalist. Clean lines. A story in flavor instead of flair. Jack reappeared like he'd been listening the whole time, which, knowing him, he probably had. He said nothing at first. Just watched her offer him a fork. "Final term, right?" he asked, looking at the plate, not her.
"Yeah."
He tasted. One bite. Another. Then silence. He leaned back against the prep table behind him, chewing thoughtfully. "You ever work in a real kitchen?" "No," Delilah said. "Not yet."
He nodded slowly. "Good. Means you haven't picked up bad habits." Delilah raised an eyebrow. "Is that… a compliment?” Jack smirked faintly. "Don't push your luck." Another pause. Then, "That black garlic thing—foam? Risky. Could've gone sideways."
"It has. Twice."
"Didn't today."
Delilah shrugged. "I figured if I was gonna bomb, I'd rather do it here than in front of my professor." Jack stepped around the table, glanced at the clean mise, the empty sink. "Keep showing up on time. Clean up like this every time. Don't talk unless you need something. And if you're gonna keep doing stuff like this—" he motioned to the plate, "—I won't kick you out."
"That's all I'm asking."
He started to walk away, then stopped just before the doors to the main kitchen. "Adrian said you were serious," he said over his shoulder. "I didn't believe him. I do now." Delilah didn't say anything. She just turned back to her station and began to clean. She had 8 minutes left. And she intended to use every one.
————
The train ride home was quiet, the city not quite awake yet. Delilah leaned her head against the window, letting the blur of buildings and steel pass by in streaks of grey and morning gold. Her hands still smelled faintly of duck fat and soy reduction, and the ache in her legs—earned, earned, earned—felt better than rest. Jack hadn't said much, but he hadn't needed to. She'd seen the look in his eyes after that second bite. It wasn't praise exactly. It was recognition.
By the time she reached her stop, the adrenaline had worn off. The tiredness set in like a blanket pulled over her shoulders—but she didn't have the luxury of crashing. Not today. Velour would be slammed tonight. Thursday dinner service blended into nightlife without warning, and she was on for both—first behind the service bar, shaking cocktails for diners and couples who used oysters as foreplay, and then upstairs in the late-night lounge, where the music drowned out the glassware and the pours got heavier after midnight. It was a long shift. A double. Delilah was used to long.
Delilah stood in front of the mirror, towel slung low on her hips, steam curling behind her from the shower. Thursday nights blurred the line between fine dining and nightlife, and she dressed accordingly. By 4:12 PM, she was dressed again—She pulled on the black satin pants—fitted, high-waisted, and tailored like a second skin. They hugged her in all the right places, sleek and polished with a subtle sheen that caught the low lighting of Velour like moonlight off glass. No need for slits or tricks—these pants spoke for themselves.
Next came a stylish black halter top —low cut, with a plunging V-neck that danced just above scandal and cinched perfectly at the waist. She added a gold necklace that sat right at collarbone line, a thin glint of warmth.
Her heels were matte black stilettos—sharp, clean, and just high enough to command attention. No platform. No frills. Just presence. She walked taller in them, not out of need, but choice. She lined her eyes lightly, tied her curls into an high ponytail with a few lost strands hanging and added lipstick—rich plum.
By 5:02 pm she was walking in through the back entrance, heels tapping with calm precision. "Damn," The hostess Shay teased as Delilah passed. “You're gonna get half the floor drunk before they order." Delilah rolled her eyes but smirked. “That’s the plan. I’m trying to get paid.”
The lights were dim. The music low and throbbing. Bottles glinted behind the bar like trophies. She stepped behind the counter, and took her position. Velour was alive
The assignment had gnawed at her since it was first given. Create a dish that tells your story. Layered flavors. Multiple techniques. One component that pushes your limits. It sounded poetic, but it was pressure disguised as art. Still, she'd risen to worse. She wasn't here to impress anyone. She was here because Adrian had believed in her, and because she'd decided to believe in herself—at least enough to knock on this door.
She did, twice. The sound echoed into metal and silence. Moments later, the door creaked open. Jack Hartley stood in the frame. Taller than she expected. Tattoos snaked down both arms, apron already tied, a half-drunk coffee in one hand. His eyes swept over her in one quick, clinical look.
"You're early," he said.
"I figured better than late. Besides I don't like wasting time."
Jack grunted. "You got your knives?"
She held up the roll.
"Good. I don't lend mine.” He glanced at the clock inside. "You've got until 9:45. Kitchen opens at ten sharp for staff prep. You're not here to work for me, just don't get in my way."
"I won't."
"You better not." He stepped aside. "Come in."
The kitchen was a surprise. Sleek, modern, pristine. White tile floors. Deep blue cabinets. Marble counters with induction burners built seamlessly into the surface. State-of-the-art convection ovens. Japanese carbon steel knives on magnetic strips. Custom brass hardware. Not a tool out of place. This wasn't the kind of space Delilah had imagined—not the grimy basement grind she'd heard about in culinary war stories. This place gleamed. It was quiet, humming with potential. A sanctuary for people who knew how to move, how to respect space. She did.
Jack watched her as she set up at an unused station along the side wall. "Clean when you're done. Don't touch anything out for prep. Stay out of the walk-in when it gets close to opening. Other than that go in there. Take what you want but write down what you take so I know how much stock I have. I don't train people anymore," he said flatly, sipping his coffee.
"Understood. Also I'm not here to be trained," Delilah said, setting her knife roll on the polished counter. "I'm here to work." Jack gave a noncommittal grunt and disappeared toward the front of house. Delilah moved quickly, efficiently. She had too some of the money left over from what Adrian had given her to buy her own ingredients. She made sure to have enough to practice this dish at least 3 times. She laid out her ingredients: duck breast, pickled shallots, dried seaweed powder, fermented black garlic paste, a tangle of handmade soba she'd rolled late the night before. Everything pre-measured, labeled. Adrian had given her the space—she wasn't going to waste it fumbling.
She moved through the stations with quiet confidence. Searing, whisking, reducing. Steam rose in gentle bursts. Sauces came to life. Her fingers worked with sharp, deliberate speed, slicing through ginger like breath, her mind focused, tuned to timing and temperature. This dish was her. The soft umami of the soba—quiet, controlled, years of discipline in every strand. The sharpness of the pickled shallots—bright moments, jarring honesty. The duck, medium rare, crusted in her grandmother's pepper mix—boldness inherited.bThe black garlic foam—a challenge to herself. Molecular. Modern. Unforgiving. She'd failed it twice at home. Today, it bloomed.
By 9:35, she plated. Minimalist. Clean lines. A story in flavor instead of flair. Jack reappeared like he'd been listening the whole time, which, knowing him, he probably had. He said nothing at first. Just watched her offer him a fork. "Final term, right?" he asked, looking at the plate, not her.
"Yeah."
He tasted. One bite. Another. Then silence. He leaned back against the prep table behind him, chewing thoughtfully. "You ever work in a real kitchen?" "No," Delilah said. "Not yet."
He nodded slowly. "Good. Means you haven't picked up bad habits." Delilah raised an eyebrow. "Is that… a compliment?” Jack smirked faintly. "Don't push your luck." Another pause. Then, "That black garlic thing—foam? Risky. Could've gone sideways."
"It has. Twice."
"Didn't today."
Delilah shrugged. "I figured if I was gonna bomb, I'd rather do it here than in front of my professor." Jack stepped around the table, glanced at the clean mise, the empty sink. "Keep showing up on time. Clean up like this every time. Don't talk unless you need something. And if you're gonna keep doing stuff like this—" he motioned to the plate, "—I won't kick you out."
"That's all I'm asking."
He started to walk away, then stopped just before the doors to the main kitchen. "Adrian said you were serious," he said over his shoulder. "I didn't believe him. I do now." Delilah didn't say anything. She just turned back to her station and began to clean. She had 8 minutes left. And she intended to use every one.
————
The train ride home was quiet, the city not quite awake yet. Delilah leaned her head against the window, letting the blur of buildings and steel pass by in streaks of grey and morning gold. Her hands still smelled faintly of duck fat and soy reduction, and the ache in her legs—earned, earned, earned—felt better than rest. Jack hadn't said much, but he hadn't needed to. She'd seen the look in his eyes after that second bite. It wasn't praise exactly. It was recognition.
By the time she reached her stop, the adrenaline had worn off. The tiredness set in like a blanket pulled over her shoulders—but she didn't have the luxury of crashing. Not today. Velour would be slammed tonight. Thursday dinner service blended into nightlife without warning, and she was on for both—first behind the service bar, shaking cocktails for diners and couples who used oysters as foreplay, and then upstairs in the late-night lounge, where the music drowned out the glassware and the pours got heavier after midnight. It was a long shift. A double. Delilah was used to long.
Delilah stood in front of the mirror, towel slung low on her hips, steam curling behind her from the shower. Thursday nights blurred the line between fine dining and nightlife, and she dressed accordingly. By 4:12 PM, she was dressed again—She pulled on the black satin pants—fitted, high-waisted, and tailored like a second skin. They hugged her in all the right places, sleek and polished with a subtle sheen that caught the low lighting of Velour like moonlight off glass. No need for slits or tricks—these pants spoke for themselves.
Next came a stylish black halter top —low cut, with a plunging V-neck that danced just above scandal and cinched perfectly at the waist. She added a gold necklace that sat right at collarbone line, a thin glint of warmth.
Her heels were matte black stilettos—sharp, clean, and just high enough to command attention. No platform. No frills. Just presence. She walked taller in them, not out of need, but choice. She lined her eyes lightly, tied her curls into an high ponytail with a few lost strands hanging and added lipstick—rich plum.
By 5:02 pm she was walking in through the back entrance, heels tapping with calm precision. "Damn," The hostess Shay teased as Delilah passed. “You're gonna get half the floor drunk before they order." Delilah rolled her eyes but smirked. “That’s the plan. I’m trying to get paid.”
The lights were dim. The music low and throbbing. Bottles glinted behind the bar like trophies. She stepped behind the counter, and took her position. Velour was alive
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Jack had called Adrian that morning, not long after Delilah had left the building. His voice, even through the speaker, carried that unmistakable blend of dry sarcasm and quiet approval. The feedback was glowing - well, glowing for Jack, which meant it had been filtered through a layer of begrudging respect and gruff restraint. But Adrian knew how to translate Jack's language. It pleased him more than he let on. Not because he hadn't expected it - he had. But because the confirmation felt earned. Delilah had taken the risk he'd offered and turned it into something of value. She'd stepped into the space he'd cleared for her and filled it with skill, presence, and undeniable talent. And more than that, she'd proven him right. His instincts about her - sharp, dangerous, unapologetically bold - hadn't been misjudged. She was every inch the warrior he suspected her to be. Not just capable, but tenacious. She didn't just cook like someone who wanted to She cooked like someone who had something to prove and nothing to lose.
Now, it was his move. They had made a deal, and Adrian had no intention of walking away from it. He'd told her that if she managed to impress, if she made a meal that stood toe-to-toe with Salerntino's, he'd answer the question she'd asked the night before. A question she'd posed with those eyes that didn't waver, with that mouth that didn't flinch, with that voice that wrapped command and curiosity into the same breath.
But where could that happen? Where could he give her that - truthfully, honestly, without distraction or risk of spectacle? His penthouse was an immediate no. It was too personal. Too private. That space was his sanctuary, a place where the world couldn't reach him. Letting her in would blur lines he wasn't ready to blur. And besides, a conversation like the one they were poised to have - one full of sharp edges and things unsaid - deserved neutral ground. Somewhere that allowed for intensity, but offered a kind of detachment too.
So he called Jack again. Jack answered on the second ring, his voice still rough with sleep or hangover - Adrian couldn't tell which. Probably both. But once Adrian explained what he needed, Jack didn't even pretend to argue. He understood. A private table near the kitchen. One of the small, discreet setups Jack reserved for his "evening slots," the unofficial rite-of-passage for aspiring chefs who wanted to prove they had the heat to survive the line. Delilah had already shown she could handle herself back there, but this would be something different. A table just for them. A space where she could cook and present, and where Adrian could receive more than just a plate of food. It would be, in every sense, the stage for her answer - and his. Jack agreed. He even grunted something that could've passed for enthusiasm.
Once it was settled, Adrian drafted the message to Delilah. No pleasantries. No unnecessary words. She wasn't the type who needed them, and he wasn't the man to offer them. He gave her the time. The place. A sharp, clipped message that conveyed far more than its few lines of text. She would know what it meant. She would understand that this was him keeping his word. That he had not forgotten the deal they struck, nor the question she asked. He was giving her the chance to ask again. And this time, he would answer.
There was something electric in that. Something almost dangerous. Because whatever she chose to ask, whatever she demanded of him - it would be met with truth. And Adrian didn't give the truth lightly. Not to anyone. He'd built his empire on careful omissions and the selective wielding of honesty. But Delilah… Delilah had earned more than most. She'd pushed past his guards with nothing but grit and fire and the kind of raw determination that couldn't be faked. And Adrian, despite every instinct telling him to keep his distance, respected the hell out of her for it. So yes. He would honour the deal.
And yet, as he set the phone down after sending the message, a flicker of something passed through him. Not regret, not anxiety - he didn't have the luxury for either - but anticipation. That low, simmering tension that came before something shifted. Like a storm gathering in the distance. Like the weightless moment between a spark and the fire that follows. He didn't know what she would ask. But whatever it was, it would be a beginning, or an end.
Either way, the table was set.
Now, it was his move. They had made a deal, and Adrian had no intention of walking away from it. He'd told her that if she managed to impress, if she made a meal that stood toe-to-toe with Salerntino's, he'd answer the question she'd asked the night before. A question she'd posed with those eyes that didn't waver, with that mouth that didn't flinch, with that voice that wrapped command and curiosity into the same breath.
But where could that happen? Where could he give her that - truthfully, honestly, without distraction or risk of spectacle? His penthouse was an immediate no. It was too personal. Too private. That space was his sanctuary, a place where the world couldn't reach him. Letting her in would blur lines he wasn't ready to blur. And besides, a conversation like the one they were poised to have - one full of sharp edges and things unsaid - deserved neutral ground. Somewhere that allowed for intensity, but offered a kind of detachment too.
So he called Jack again. Jack answered on the second ring, his voice still rough with sleep or hangover - Adrian couldn't tell which. Probably both. But once Adrian explained what he needed, Jack didn't even pretend to argue. He understood. A private table near the kitchen. One of the small, discreet setups Jack reserved for his "evening slots," the unofficial rite-of-passage for aspiring chefs who wanted to prove they had the heat to survive the line. Delilah had already shown she could handle herself back there, but this would be something different. A table just for them. A space where she could cook and present, and where Adrian could receive more than just a plate of food. It would be, in every sense, the stage for her answer - and his. Jack agreed. He even grunted something that could've passed for enthusiasm.
Once it was settled, Adrian drafted the message to Delilah. No pleasantries. No unnecessary words. She wasn't the type who needed them, and he wasn't the man to offer them. He gave her the time. The place. A sharp, clipped message that conveyed far more than its few lines of text. She would know what it meant. She would understand that this was him keeping his word. That he had not forgotten the deal they struck, nor the question she asked. He was giving her the chance to ask again. And this time, he would answer.
There was something electric in that. Something almost dangerous. Because whatever she chose to ask, whatever she demanded of him - it would be met with truth. And Adrian didn't give the truth lightly. Not to anyone. He'd built his empire on careful omissions and the selective wielding of honesty. But Delilah… Delilah had earned more than most. She'd pushed past his guards with nothing but grit and fire and the kind of raw determination that couldn't be faked. And Adrian, despite every instinct telling him to keep his distance, respected the hell out of her for it. So yes. He would honour the deal.
And yet, as he set the phone down after sending the message, a flicker of something passed through him. Not regret, not anxiety - he didn't have the luxury for either - but anticipation. That low, simmering tension that came before something shifted. Like a storm gathering in the distance. Like the weightless moment between a spark and the fire that follows. He didn't know what she would ask. But whatever it was, it would be a beginning, or an end.
Either way, the table was set.