A Helping Hand (AJS Roleplaying x Kita-san)

[AJS Roleplaying]

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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[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian didn't let go of Delilah's hand when the music came to its sudden, staccato halt. Around them, other couples pulled apart - some laughing, others breathless and flushed with the lingering thrill of movement. The small crowd clapped enthusiastically for the musicians, who grinned beneath a veil of sweat and the fading golden hour light. The air still buzzed with the rhythm, residual pulses of energy echoing in Adrian's blood. But through it all, her hand remained in his. He hadn't meant to hold it so long. He hadn't planned to. It had simply… happened. And now, with fingers intertwined like a closing loop, he realized just how reluctant he was to break contact.

There was something about the shape of her hand in his - something inexplicably complete. As though his palm had been waiting all along for this exact shape to fill it. There were thousands of explanations he could have given himself for that feeling - neural chemistry, mild infatuation, the high of dancing. But none of them would've come close to describing the calm that settled over him just from the weight and warmth of her hand. It was too simple to be rational. Too quiet to be denied.

He turned to her then, still tethered by touch, and gave a half-smile that barely masked the thoughts flickering just beneath the surface. "That was fun. Now excuse me for a moment. I need to use the bathroom. Meet you back here?"

He saw her nod from the corner of his eye, already beginning to look back toward the square where dancers still lingered, partners swapping out for new rounds. But he didn't head toward the restroom as he'd said. His stride curved away once he was out of her line of sight, slipping through the press of people with practiced ease, his thoughts focused now on something entirely different - something he hadn't allowed himself to decide on until the very moment his feet started moving. The jewellery stall.

They had stopped there earlier, both of them slowing without speaking, their attention snagged by the soft gleam of gemstones and the delicate glint of fine metalwork. He remembered how she'd hovered in front of one particular display—hesitant, but undeniably drawn. She hadn't touched anything. Just stood there, eyes tracing the lines of a necklace and then a ring, gaze lingering a beat too long to be accidental. She hadn't said a word about wanting them, hadn't tried anything on. But Adrian had seen it. The way desire can live quiet and careful in a person's expression. Not the loud, hungry kind that wants to possess, but something more private. A longing that doesn't even admit itself aloud.

He wasn't sure what made him care so much about that brief moment, or why the memory of her gaze kept circling in his head like a haunting. Maybe it was the way her stillness had felt louder than any words. Or maybe it was that - just for a moment - he'd caught a glimpse of something unguarded in her.

When he reached the stall, he was half-expecting disappointment. But the pieces were still there. Waiting. As though they'd been left behind just for him. The necklace was simple, but impossibly elegant - a slender gold chain anchored by a tear-shaped opal. The stone shimmered with pale iridescence, its colours subtle, shifting like mist behind glass: hints of blue, lavender, even the softest green. It wasn't a bold piece. It didn't clamour for attention. It carried a quiet sort of magic, like it held within it a secret that refused to stay still. Something like Delilah herself. The ring beside it was no less compelling - its band twisted delicately, almost organically, into a vine-like pattern that curled around a single oval-cut stone. A pink tourmaline, luminous and understated, its hue both romantic and restrained. It looked like it belonged on a hand that never made loud declarations, but held truths in the gentlest of grips. A hand like hers.

Adrian didn't hesitate. He asked the vendor to wrap both items carefully. The man obliged with the grace of someone who had seen this kind of thing before, and knew better than to speak into it. Once the little paper bag was folded and sealed, Adrian slipped it into the pocket of his jacket and offered only a nod in thanks. Later. He'd give them to her later. Not now, not here. There was something sacred about the moment that was coming, and he wanted to protect it from the noise, the crowd, the casualness of the market. A small offering, yes - but one that meant more to him than he could easily say. It wasn't just about the jewellery. It wasn't even about impressing her. It was about wanting to be the person who noticed. Who remembered. Who gave, simply because something about her deserved to be adorned.

By the time he made his way back, the crowd had thickened again, the heat of summer pressing gently against the skin. Delilah stood a short distance from where he had left her, her posture still relaxed, watching as a new pair took to the impromptu dance floor. There was something magnetic about the way she existed in space, not commanding attention but quietly holding it, as if the world bent around her rather than the other way around. Adrian let himself linger a second longer before stepping close again. He felt the weight of the hidden gift in his pocket, the softness of anticipation blooming inside him, rich and unrushed. There was time. No need to rush this.

He let the smile return to his lips - unforced, easy, touched with something private and new.

"So," he said, catching her eye, "where to next? Or... do you want to keep dancing?"​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah hadn't moved from the spot where Adrian left her. She hoped he was able to find the bathroom, the place was so crowded. She didn’t know where the bathroom might be but she figured he would figure it out or ask someone if he really needed to. She didn’t think about him for too long because the music swelled again, and her thoughts drifted.

The dancers had returned—new couples now, the tempo different, more fluid, more intimate. It was a kind of movement she'd never learned, never tried. Something that didn't come from videos or formal classes, but from being carefree, from letting go. And strangely, for once… she did. Delilah let herself breathe. Really breathe.

The air was thick with night-market scents—cardamom, roasted meat, something sweet like spun sugar. Lanterns flickered above the crowd in soft golds and pinks, casting warm halos over laughing faces and turning shadows into something playful instead of heavy. She wasn't thinking about overdue tuition notices. She wasn't thinking about the half-full bottle on her mom's nightstand. She wasn't thinking about being a bottle for extra money at Velour. She really didn’t want to do that anymore. Not here. Not now. Right now, she was just here. And it was enough.

Her hands rested loosely at her sides, her weight leaned against a lamp post, and a smile—small, almost shy—had curved her lips as she watched the way strangers moved together like they had known each other for years. Even if they hadn't. When Adrian returned, she didn't hear him right away—just felt him. A soft change in the air, a presence she didn't need to look at to know. She turned, caught his eye, and for a beat, didn't say anything. Just took him in. Something about the way he looked at her made her feel steadier. Like the person she tried so hard to hold together wasn't falling apart after all.

When he asked what to do next she paused for a moment. She noticed the slow music and how close everyone was dancing. It seemed as though couples took over this song so she decided against dancing again.

"I don't know how to dance to this song. A faster beat would be better so let’s just skip the dancing for now.” She stepped forward and glanced around for a moment just wondering where else they could go. “Maybe that way, it seems a bit quiet and less crowded.” Delilah wouldn’t mind a short break.

She led him away from the crowd, weaving through booths lit by lanterns and lined with local crafts, scents, and laughter. Eventually, they found a tucked-away corner with a few worn tables and mismatched chairs. It was quieter here, the sound of the music dimmer but still present in the air, like the aftertaste of something sweet. Delilah sat, leaning forward slightly with her arms on the table, gaze drifting back toward the bustle of the market. Her features softened in the glow, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was no trace of the usual weight behind her eyes. She turned back to him, lips curving gently.

“This is pretty fun. Better than you expected or did you not expect much?” She asked Adrian. She just wanted to know how he was feeling. She had noticed him smiling from time to time which is something he rarely did. “It’s getting kind of late. Do you have work or anything tomorrow?” She asked as she checked her cellphone for the time. She noticed a text from her mother. The message read that she was ok and won’t be home tonight but Delilah could tell by the random letters and misspelling that her mother was not sober.

The young girl sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Well at least I get to go home to peace and quiet.” She muttered to herself and out her cellphone back in her pocket. “I think I want to grab a caramel apple before we leave this place. I can indulge by myself when I get home.” She chuckled softly. She was looking forward to it.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian sank into the chair opposite her, the legs of it uneven against the cobbled stones of the night market's quiet corner. It was a relief - this pocket of hush amid the carnival of light and sound. He hadn't realized how much he'd been craving silence until it wrapped itself around them, tender and weightless, like mist. The laughter and shouts of the crowd echoed at a safe distance now, blunted by the hum of distance, and for once, he didn't feel the need to be anywhere else. The truth was, Adrian wasn't unaccustomed to chaos. His world thrived on it. The relentless, tooth-and-claw pace of corporate warfare was its own kind of noise - a roar of deadlines and data, politics and pressure, and the occasional soft undertone of backstabbing ambition masquerading as camaraderie. He had built his company from nothing but the certainty in his own spine and the bruises of every lesson hard-earned. He had become fluent in the language of power, of leverage, of using silence like a blade.

And yet, this - this calm in Delilah's company, this stolen recess from his curated life - felt like something else entirely. Not a tactic. Not a negotiation. Just the luxury of presence. He'd noticed it the moment her gaze drifted down to her phone. It was subtle, that shift - barely a flicker - but it tightened something in the air between them. Her expression didn't crumple, exactly; it braced. People who lived too long with disappointment learned to wear their heartbreaks carefully. She hadn't said anything directly, but he could see the truth of it in the shallow breath she took after reading whatever message came through.

He didn't need the full story. She only knew fragments of what he'd shared about her mother's drinking - drips of truth parcelled out in protective ration. It wasn't that he wanted to shield her, necessarily. It was just... when you spoke a thing too plainly, it became more real. More permanent. There was enough permanence in that kind of pain already. Then she'd said it, with a flash of brittle humour: "Well at least I get to go home to peace and quiet." The words clung to him, long after they'd fallen from her lips. They were light, thrown casually - too casually - but they had edges. He recognized them, recognized the loneliness baked into them. The kind that didn't just settle around you but inside you. The kind that made the quiet less of a balm and more of an indictment.

When she turned her attention back to him with that careful smile, asking if he was having fun, Adrian gave a smile of his own. This one was gentler than most people saw from him, softer around the corners. "When you first mentioned the night market," he said, "I didn't know that was a thing." That much was true - he had pictured something vastly different, something colder, more sterile. But this was vivid and strange and intimate, its stalls stitched together with string lights and foreign spices, full of odd treasures and fried sweetness and the low murmur of a hundred separate stories being lived all at once. "You did the right thing, not giving me a choice about whether to come. I'm used to being the one pulling that trick." He chuckled faintly, recalling the countless times he'd steamrolled decisions beneath a veneer of charm and logic. "But you pulled it off like a seasoned professional. That'll serve you well in the kitchen."

And there it was again - that flicker of warmth she kindled so easily. He let himself fall into it, just for a moment.

Then she mentioned caramel apples, and the laugh that escaped him this time was freer, less practiced than the ones he typically doled out in meetings or functions. This wasn't about charm or persuasion. It was just joy, simple and unguarded. "No," he replied, drawing out the word slightly, with a shake of the head that was more amusement than refusal. "We are both going to get one - and enjoy them messily, together."

The image of it filled his mind with a sudden tenderness. Fingers sticky with syrup, teeth sinking into the hard gloss of sugar shell and soft apple beneath, shared glances between bites, laughter when it inevitably smeared across her cheek. It wasn't the kind of moment he normally allowed himself. His life was too buttoned-up, too lacquered with control. He didn't do messy. He didn't do spontaneous. But here, under the dusky glow of strung lanterns and the slow drift of cooking oil in the air, he wanted to.

There was something about her that pulled him from his own orbit. She didn't try to charm him. She didn't need to. She simply existed with a kind of earnestness that chipped away at his armour, patient and quiet. And in return, he found himself giving more than he usually did. Not just information or approval, but small pieces of truth. Small glimpses of the man beneath the tailored suits and strategic silences. He didn't say any of that, of course. He wasn't ready for honesty in that shape, not aloud. But he hoped she could feel it. In the way his shoulders had dropped slightly since they'd sat down. In the smile that lingered a beat too long. In the fact that, for once, Adrian wasn't thinking of the next move, the next quarter, or the next conversation he had to manage.

He was just here. With her. And that, for now, was enough.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah relaxed while on the bench, her hands rested in her lap as she listened to Adrian speak about her trick. She couldn’t help but smirk, she had to invite him in that manner or he wouldn’t have come. They were a lot alike, she was starting to realize that. "Pulled it off like a seasoned professional?" she repeated, raising one brow, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Well thank you. I figured you wouldn’t come if I gave you an option. I'd do it again. Hopefully you don’t regret coming here today.”

She let a soft laugh escape her then—light, proud. It danced between them like one of the market's lanterns, warm and a little defiant. But when he nodded, complimenting how it would serve her in the kitchen, the teasing faded for a heartbeat. Pride softened into something quieter. More vulnerable. Her shoulders relaxed, and her voice dropped, just a little. "That's the goal." She didn't say chef. She didn't have to. It lived in the way her eyes brightened and her back straightened just slightly when he said it. In the way her fingers curled subtly against the fabric of her skirt like she could already feel the weight of a knife in her hand, hear the hiss of oil on the stove, see the plate arranged just so. His compliment wasn't exaggerated. It wasn't flattery. It was seen. And that meant something.

She exhaled, content now. Really content. The night market still buzzed nearby, but it felt like it had shifted just far enough away that she could breathe. She watched a few children run past, small hands sticky with sugar and cotton candy, laughter trailing like music behind them. Lantern light shimmered on the cobbled stones. Somewhere, someone played a slow, twanging melody on a stringed instrument. And she was here. With Adrian. Then came the caramel apple suggestion. His mention of wanting want to and eating it together surprised her. She didn’t actually expect him to say such a thing or even want such a thing.

Delilah couldn’t hold it back, she actually giggled. Not the restrained laugh she gave when she was trying to play it cool, but a genuine, full giggle. Her eyes lit up, round with surprise and mischief. "You want to eat caramel apples?" she teased. "Together? You realize how sticky those are, right?” She was only teasing him. She felt like she could.

She looked at him like he'd just said something absurdly wonderful. "Okay, okay.
We should definitely get them and eat them right here or somewhere quiet. I could use a more quiet atmosphere. What do you think?" She grinned, standing slowly and brushing the back of her shorts off with a quick flick of her hand. She turned her back to him and quickly dusted off her thighs as just in case the wood bench left anything behind. Without thinking too much into she glanced over her shoulder, trying to see her bottom knowing it wasn’t going to work. “I don’t have anything on me right?” She asked. She just wanted to make sure her black shorts weren’t stand but she didn’t realize she was asking him to look at her ass. Once she got the ok she turned to face him.

"C'mon.” She said and began to walk to the stall where she saw the apples at. There was something easier in her movements now. No tension in her shoulders. No guarded glances. Just ease. That rare and precious thing. But as they walked toward the booth, past the glow and spice, a quiet voice in the back of her head stirred. Don't invite him back. Not because she didn't want to. The thought of him sitting on her old couch or kitchen chair, as they fill up on sugar filled her head.

But— Her mother.

The house wasn't a disaster, but it wasn't safe, either. Not safe safe. There were too many variables. Too many things she couldn't explain or control. The fear of walking in and finding her mom sprawled on the couch, mascara streaked down her cheeks, bottle in hand, and Adrian seeing that—it twisted in her chest like a cold knot. She wasn't embarrassed about money. She had worked for everything she had. But her? She didn't want him to see that part of her life. Not yet.
And maybe not just because of her mother. Maybe because inviting him in was letting him in. And that was big. Too big, too fast.

So she didn't say anything about where they'd go after. She just walked beside him, brushing her hand lightly against his once in a while like it was accidental, like she didn't need anything else in the world except this moment and maybe—just maybe—the next one after. And maybe that was enough.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian felt his thoughts hesitate - not quite stopping, but definitely catching - when Delilah asked the question. It was almost nothing, tossed out like an afterthought, so lightly and easily that it might have gone unnoticed if not for the subject matter. "I don't have anything on me right?" she asked, the question tumbling effortlessly from her lips, too casual to be self-conscious, too breezy to be premeditated. He registered it in layers. First, the words. Then, the implication. Then, finally, the permission embedded within it, whether she meant to give it or not. She was asking if he'd looked - if he could look - at her ass.

And he had. Not at that specific moment, no, but earlier. Several times. Not obsessively, he told himself -just in passing. Respectfully. Appreciatively. She was, after all, the sort of woman who made noticing inevitable. Not ostentatiously sexy, but intentionally composed, casually confident in her body in a way that only made her more magnetic. She moved like someone with history in her hips, like someone who had discovered early on that the world paid attention when she entered a room - and had long since learned to wield that attention like a well-balanced knife.

He'd caught himself more than once admiring the lines of her legs when she crossed them, or the effortless sway in her walk. He noticed the curve of her waist when she twisted to reach into her bag, or the way her shirt would sometimes cling in the breeze, mapping out the shape of her torso like it had memorized her. And now, with a single offhand question, she was inviting him - intentionally or not - to look again. To assess. To see her.

And for a split second, he froze.

Not outwardly - he was composed enough for that - but something within him paused, caught off guard by the simplicity of her phrasing, by the unintentional intimacy of it. Because whether or not she realized it, asking a man to look at you - to really look - was never just a question. It was an offering. Even when wrapped in casualness. Even when disguised as practicality.

He didn't make her repeat it. He glanced. A single, contained glance, as if that would neutralize the weight of it. "No, nothing there," he said. His voice came out even. Measured. If it betrayed anything, he hoped it only sounded like idle courtesy. But something had shifted. That was the moment he began noticing the air between them. The way their bodies seemed to orbit each other now, drawn closer by the gravity of something not yet spoken. As they began walking again, toward the caramel apple stand tucked beneath a string of soft golden lights, he noticed how easily they fell into step. How their hands brushed once, then again. Neither of them pulled away. He didn't let his gaze linger on her too long - just long enough to take in the slope of her bare shoulder, the edge of her collarbone, the loose thread dangling from the hem of her sleeve. There was something magnetic in the juxtaposition: the faint rawness of worn fabric against the smoothness of her skin. He didn't touch it. He just thought about it.

When they reached the stand, he gestured for two. "Two caramel apples, please." The vendor, oblivious to whatever had begun to bloom between them, handed them over with the same practiced cheer he probably gave to every couple, every child, every pair of strangers playing at connection beneath the soft-lit glow of the market. Adrian passed one to Delilah. Their fingers grazed in the exchange. He didn't speak as they made their way back to the bench in the corner of the night market, but his awareness of her presence had sharpened to a fine, precise point. Every movement, every shift in her weight as she walked beside him, seemed charged with something more. He found himself attuned to the rhythm of her steps, the texture of her silence. Something unsaid clung to the air around them, more noticeable now that it had a shape. Not desire, but the possibility of it. The tension of two bodies learning each other's boundaries without ever acknowledging them aloud. The kind of charge that built not from action, but from potential. From the breath before the word. From the glance before the reach.

And all of it - every unspoken flicker - had begun with that one question. An accidental intimacy. A door, half-open. An invitation that might have been nothing.

Or everything.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah took the caramel apple from Adrian with a small nod of thanks, the brief brush of his fingers sending a strange awareness curling down her spine. It wasn't the first time they'd touched—there'd been plenty of fleeting contact before—but this time, it registered differently. Not heavier, not obvious, but… more. Something beneath the surface. A subtle current that had found its way between them and settled, patient and quiet, like it had all the time in the world.

She turned the stick in her hand, inspecting the glossy shell of caramel, then glanced up at him. His eyes were already forward, watching the crowd. The noise of the market buzzed behind them, warm and harmless, but it felt like they were standing at the edge of something else—something quieter, more honest. She smiled faintly. "We should find somewhere to eat these," she said, breaking the silence gently. "I think there's a park just a little further down."

Delilah walked a step ahead of Adrian, the caramel apple cool and sticky in her hand, but her attention kept drifting back—like a thread tugging her gently in his direction. There was something about being beside him tonight that felt… effortless. And yet not. Like walking a familiar path under new light, seeing the contours of something she thought she understood begin to shift. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But enough to notice.

She hadn't planned for any of it. Not the question. Not how naturally he'd said yes. Not how the night air would feel different with him beside her, or how aware she'd be of the way his shoulder moved just slightly when he turned to look at something. She'd invited him because it seemed harmless. A simple thing. But simple things had a way of unfolding into more.

As they turned a corner and the street opened up to the park, her steps slowed just a little. The night had softened around them—the glow of distant lamps catching on the leaves, the world pulling back like it was giving them room. Room to breathe. Room to notice.

Delilah's thoughts circled around the quiet of it all. He hadn't flirted. Hadn't said anything suggestive. And neither had she. But the silence between them had been… charged. Not with tension, exactly. With possibility. The kind that settled in the space where words might eventually go. The kind that didn't push, just waited.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, letting herself look a little longer than she might have earlier. There was something about Adrian's presence tonight—something steady. He wasn't trying to impress her, wasn't posturing. He was just there, fully, like he'd decided that was enough. And oddly, it was. That quiet certainty pulled at her in ways she hadn't anticipated.

When she finally broke the silence with her thanks, she meant it more than she expected to. Not because he'd done something extraordinary. But because this—walking side by side in the calm after the noise—felt like something rare. She didn't realize how much she'd missed this kind of companionship until she had it again. "I hoped you actually had a good time," she'd said, and she meant it. She wasn't asking for validation, not really. She just wanted to know if he'd felt it too—that sense of ease, the way the night had held them without asking for anything loud or dramatic. Just presence. Just attention.

It wasn't just about the market. It was about the question before the question. The space between two people who hadn't defined anything, but maybe didn't need to yet. Maybe it was enough to just name the feeling—that small, steady pull toward someone who made the night feel a little more alive.

They reached the bench—slightly worn, paint chipped at the edges, nestled beneath an old sycamore that rustled quietly in the breeze. Delilah sat first, the wooden slats cool against the backs of her legs, and glanced up at Adrian before scooting just enough to the side to make space without making it obvious. She held the caramel apple in both hands for a moment, examining it like it held more meaning than just a snack. Maybe it did. The kind of treat you didn't get for yourself but always said yes to when someone offered. Sweet. Nostalgic. A little ridiculous, honestly—but in the best way. Like the night itself.

Then, with a small smile to herself, she leaned in and took a bite. The caramel cracked slightly under her teeth, sweet and sticky. The tartness of the apple followed immediately after, sharp and clean. She chewed slowly, savoring the contrast. "It's better than I expected," she said after she swallowed, her voice low, thoughtful. She wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb. "Messy, but good."

A quiet laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. Something about saying that felt loaded—like her subconscious had made a joke her conscious mind only now caught up with. She glanced sideways at Adrian, gauging his expression.

There was comfort in the silence that followed. She didn't feel the need to fill it, and that alone told her something about him. About what this maybe was. They could sit in a quiet park, chewing caramel apples under tree shadows and streetlight haze, and it didn't feel hollow. It felt… whole. Undemanding. Like she could be still without being forgotten.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

"Messy, but good."

The words hung between them, suspended like the warm, sticky air of the night market they had just wandered through. She had laughed when she said it - low and unapologetic, like a confession tossed carelessly into the wind. But to him, there was no carelessness in it at all. He caught the meaning immediately, felt the weight behind the simplicity. Messy, but good. It was a perfect summation of everything they had become.

The truth was, he had known from the beginning that nothing about her fit neatly into the life he had spent years constructing. She was chaos wrapped in beauty, with the soft hands of someone used to slicing through dough and fire, and the hunger of someone who hadn't yet tasted enough of the world to be content. He, on the other hand, had tasted it all. The wealth. The women. The power. The rooms where decisions were made in hushed tones over glasses of hundred-year-old scotch. He had built his company from the ground up, carved it from stone with bloodied hands and sleepless ambition. At thirty-seven, he was the CEO of something that people respected, feared, envied. But he'd never been looked at the way she looked at him - like he was something to taste, something strange and new.

There were fifteen years between them. Fifteen years of experience, of cynicism, of callouses she hadn't yet earned. It should have created distance, a chasm of understanding too wide to cross. But somehow, it only made the tension between them burn hotter, made the curiosity sharper. The gap wasn't just age - it was perspective, pace, expectation. She lived in the fragile, volatile world of the almost. Almost graduated. Almost employed. Almost stable. And yet, despite all that, she carried herself with the unshakable gravity of someone who had already decided the world would have to make space for her. He admired that. He envied it, even. He remembered her words as he turned the caramel apple slowly in his hand, feeling the familiar tack of sugar on his fingertips. "Messy, but good." How fitting. There was nothing clean about this. Not the way she'd come into his life. It was all deliciously complicated. He'd spent most of his adult life keeping things streamlined, elegant, predictable. And then she appeared, a woman ten years too young for the world he occupied and ten times too brave for the silence he had settled into.

He let the sweetness of the apple coat his tongue, grounding himself. He had told her he wasn't the kind of man who visited night markets. That much was true. His calendar, managed down to the minute by two different executive assistants, rarely allowed for anything so unstructured. Night markets weren't curated events with dress codes and catered lighting - they were loud and brash, full of smells that clashed and voices that rose freely. He didn't belong in places like that. And yet, tonight, he had found himself weaving through those crowds beside her, watching her eyes light up at small things - a vendor making dumplings by hand, a child laughing with his father over spilled boba tea. She moved through the chaos like it fed her, and it did something to him. It reminded him of parts of himself he had long since buried under the weight of success.

"I've enjoyed seeing this side of you," he had said. And he meant it. Watching her laugh, negotiate with a food vendor, tell stories from her past with that unfiltered candour - he could feel something unfamiliar crack open in his chest. "It makes the other sides make sense now." And that was the most honest thing he'd said all night. The playful cruelty she wielded during their long conversations, the unexpected insight she offered without pretence, the way she demanded more of him without even trying - it all made more sense now, seen in this context. Messy. But good.

"Promise me something," he had said softly, not needing to raise his voice above the quiet hum of the cooling night. "Make room for this side more often."

He hadn't said it to lecture or advise. It wasn't one of those faux-paternal statements older men sometimes made when dating younger women, disguised as wisdom. He wasn't trying to shape her, or steer her. God knows she wouldn't allow it anyway. It was more that he wanted to see her like this again - to feel again what it was to walk through something unscripted, and have her beside him, changing the colour of the moment just by being in it.

She had smiled at that, not in agreement, not in protest, but in that enigmatic way of hers, full of unspoken thoughts he was beginning to enjoy not knowing. Maybe she would make room for this side. Maybe she wouldn't. That was part of the thrill. There were no guarantees with Delilah, no fixed points to tether to. She moved with the wind, and if you were lucky enough to catch a current, you held on as long as it let you.

He bit into the apple again, the crunch echoing in the quiet between them. There was something vaguely indecent about sitting here beside her like this, knowing what he knew, remembering how her voice had sounded in the dark the night before - raw and vulnerable and wickedly sweet. She was a mess he didn't want to clean up. She was a story he wanted to get lost in.

Messy. But, it was good.
​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah let her teeth sink into the caramel apple again, slower this time. The crisp snap of the skin gave way to the familiar tartness, softened by the thick, sticky sweetness of the caramel. It clung to her lips, to her fingertips, and she didn't mind in the slightest. It was indulgent. Messy, yes—but damn if it didn't taste like honesty. She sat normally on the bench and lightly kicked her legs as she ate the apple. She didn’t realize it was something she did when she was happy, especially while eating something good.

She liked seeing Adrian like this—quiet and thoughtful, letting the moment sink in without needing to fill it. Most men in his world spoke like they were running out of time, like they had to be impressive with every breath. But not him. Not right now. Right now he was present, and that was worth more than anything he could've said to impress her. Delilah watched him from the corner of her eye, her lashes lowered, fingers brushing the stick of her apple as though coaxing something more from it. He really did enjoy himself, she thought.

The realization curled warm in her chest. It wasn't pride—it was something quieter than that. A kind of pleased surprise. As if part of her hadn't expected him to really see this side of her, let alone appreciate it. But he had. And that meant something. What is it about this side that makes the others make sense? she wondered, not because she doubted him, but because the question felt like a puzzle she suddenly wanted to understand. Was it the way she laughed more freely here? The way she stopped caring if her hair frizzed in the humidity or if her lipstick smudged when she bit into something too big for one bite? She wasn't trying to be captivating tonight. She was just being Delilah. And somehow, that had worked its own kind of magic.

When he spoke again—Promise me something… Make room for this side more often—she arched a brow, the corner of her mouth pulling up. "Are we doing that now?" she asked softly. "The part where you make requests like I'm something you're trying to save?” But there was no bite in it. Just that low, teasing lilt that always danced on the edge of sincerity. She let her gaze linger on him this time—long enough to let him feel it, the full weight of her attention.

She didn't answer right away. Just took another bite, slower this time, letting the silence stretch like golden thread between them. Then, finally, the smirk softened into something quieter. Something real. The kind of smile you didn't give to just anyone. "I'll try," she said, almost a whisper. And then, after a beat, she turned toward him just enough to nudge his arm with her elbow. "But you don't get to make requests without giving something up too." She paused, let the moment settle, and added with that same low warmth: "So you promise me the same."

She let it hang in the air—not demanding, not coaxing. Just an offer. A mirror. "Make room for this side," she said, her voice quieter now. "The one who wanders through night markets and forgets to check the time. The one who listens instead of performs. The one who lets me see who you are when the world isn't watching." She didn't need him to answer but she figured he would keel the promise in mind.

Delilah ate almost all of her apple, her fingers were slightly sticky, she licked her pointer finger before looking around for a trash can. She got up and tossed what was left of her apple and made her way back over to Adrian. “How sticky are your hands? Maybe we can wash our hands somewhere.” She added as she spotted a public rest room. “I’ll be right back.” She said and motioned towards the bathroom. As she washed her hands she looked at herself in the mirror above the sink.

Time to go home. She thought even though she really didn’t want to. She was actually have a good time for once and she knew that her strict and hard life would soon take over again once this day was over. With a soft sigh she left the bathroom and approached Adrian.

“Getting the apple was a smart decision.” She said as she pushed her hair back behind her shoulders. “Ready to call it day?” She asked know that the night market was a lot to handle. It was fun and interesting but it did take some energy.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian gave a quiet nod when Delilah suggested they call it a night. It wasn't that he was eager for it to end, far from it. But some moments had a rhythm of their own, an arc that felt neither forced nor fumbled. And this was one of them. A conversation that hadn't collapsed under the weight of past silences, a connection that hadn't frayed the longer it was pulled. It was rare. He had learned, too well, that not everything gets a graceful exit. People ghost. Conversations die mid-thought. Emotions sour in the space between unsaid words. But tonight had been something else - calm, clean, quietly meaningful. He lingered for a breath longer than necessary, as if trying to memorize the final scene of something he didn't want to rewrite. There was a stillness between them, not hollow but full, like a song that ended on the right note. Then, as if remembering a final line in a script he'd written long ago, he reached into his coat pocket. The fabric gave way to his fingers, smooth from habit, until they found the small velvet bag nestled safely inside. He drew it out carefully, the motion deliberate. There was no ceremony in it, but there was meaning.

"Before you go, a small token of my appreciation."

The bag was light in his hand, but its contents were far from trivial. The ring and necklace inside weren't grand gestures - they weren't meant to be. They were personal, chosen with more thought than he liked to admit. He passed it to her, the weight of it shifting from his fingers to hers with an intimacy that spoke louder than anything he might have said aloud.

"Promise me you will not open this until you get home."

It wasn't a request, not really. It was a tether. A way to stretch the night just a little bit further, to make his presence linger after she walked away. Delaying the moment she'd see what he'd given her gave him a strange kind of comfort. Until she opened it, the moment would remain intact, untouched by interpretation or reaction. Still his, in some small way. He turned then. Not abruptly, not to escape - just to let things settle naturally. He didn't need to see how she held the bag or what flickered across her face. Some things were better left to the imagination, especially with Delilah. Her mystery wasn't performative; it was intrinsic. She carried it like perfume - faint, traceable, never overpowering.

"Thank you. And I promise to make more time for this, for you."

The words hit him in a way he hadn't prepared for. Soft, unhurried, yet quietly seismic. They felt like a warm hand pressed gently to his chest. A vow, unprompted. And then came the part that caught him off guard - not the this, not the time, but the you. She hadn't needed to say it. He hadn't expected her to. And yet there it was, sitting between them like a truth accidentally spoken aloud. He smiled at that, caught somewhere between surprise and something he couldn't name. Not joy, exactly, but a kind of sweetness that felt alien in his mouth. It curled at the edge of his lips, crooked and small. Not everything deserved to be dissected. Some moments were better left as they were—unfolding in real time, offered like an unwrapped gift. So he didn't say anything else. Didn't question her sincerity or press for more. He let the silence hold what neither of them knew how to say.

"See you again soon, Delilah."

Her name lingered like a punctuation mark he couldn't quite place. Not a period. Not an ellipsis. Maybe a semicolon - the pause between one thought and the next, a promise that the sentence wasn't over. He walked away with that thought tucked somewhere deep inside him. Not a hope, not exactly. But something quieter. A shift in the air. The kind of thing you don't notice until later, when you're alone, and it comes back to you in fragments: the way she'd looked at him, the softness in her voice, the feel of velvet between his fingers.

He didn't believe in easy endings. Didn't trust them. But tonight wasn't about belief or mistrust. It was just what it was. A night with clean edges and a woman he couldn't quite define. A gift given. A promise made. A name spoken like something worth returning to. He had no idea what she'd think when she opened the bag. He wouldn't be there to see it. But maybe that was the point. Sometimes you gave things not to be witnessed, but because you needed to give them. And if the gesture landed in silence, so be it.

He kept walking. Not quickly, not slowly. Just enough to let the night close behind him.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah blinked at the small velvet bag in her hand, its weight surprisingly delicate, as though it might dissolve if she gripped it too tightly. Adrian's words still lingered in the air between them—"Promise me you will not open this until you get home"—not demanding, but undeniably firm. She looked up at him, caught off guard by the gesture.

Her first instinct was confusion. A gift? From Adrian? The same Adrian who spent most days at work buried behind reports, eyes scanning data like he was trying to solve a riddle the universe hadn't yet given him permission to crack? The same man who spoke with calculated clarity, who rarely—very rarely—leaned into sentiment? She hadn't expected this. And that made it all the more… intriguing.

She glanced at the bag again, then back at him. "Thank you," she said simply, careful to keep her voice neutral, though curiosity tugged at the edges of her words. "I'll wait, like you asked." There was a flicker in his expression—relief, maybe, or something softer—and then he turned to go. Not abrupt, not awkward. Just… Adrian. She watched him walk away, the quiet confidence in his stride making the moment feel like it had been rehearsed, as if it always had to end this way.
"Goodnight, Adrian," she called after him.
As he disappeared into the night, she stood there for a beat longer than necessary, the velvet bag warm now from her palm. Then, without ceremony, she slipped it into her coat pocket and turned toward home.

The house was unusually still when she let herself in. No television muttering in the background, no clatter of bottles in the kitchen. No slurred accusations or forgotten promises echoing down the hallway. Her mother wasn't home tonight—off somewhere, drinking someone else's patience dry—and for that, Delilah was grateful. She flicked on a small lamp by the window, letting the gentle glow spread across the modest space. Then she sat on the edge of her bed, toed off her shoes, and pulled the velvet bag from her pocket with deliberate care. For a moment, she just stared at it.

She remembered the night market. The warm air laced with spice and laughter, strings of lights tangled above their heads, the stalls spilling color and noise and memory. She remembered the display—simple, almost unremarkable in the chaos around it—and how she'd paused in front of it, fingertips grazing the the pieces as if to trace the shapes inside. She hadn't lingered long. Just a passing moment. But he'd noticed. She loosened the drawstring and let the contents spill gently into her hand.

The necklace caught the light first. A slender gold chain, impossibly fine, holding a teardrop-shaped opal. It shimmered with an otherworldly softness—lavender, blue, pale green all swirling beneath the surface like a secret trying to stay hidden. It was beautiful. Not flashy. Not loud. But right. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Then the ring. A delicate band, twisting like ivy—graceful and wild. At its center, a pink tourmaline stone, oval-cut and gentle in its light. Romantic, restrained, and completely unlike anything she'd ever received. She turned it over in her palm, studying the craftsmanship, the intention. This wasn't a gift picked up in passing. This was chosen.

"Damn you, Adrian," she whispered, half-smiling, voice laced with something between wonder and disbelief. No one had ever bought her anything like this. Not without strings. Not without an agenda. But this? This felt different. It wasn't about grandeur or impressing her—it was about noticing. Remembering. Caring, in a quiet, deliberate way. She thought about him then. His stiff nods. The way he always seemed to hesitate before saying something personal, as if weighing the risk of honesty. The way his eyes softened, though, when she surprised him with kindness, or humor, or just her presence.

Adrian was definitely odd. Awkward, even, outside the realm of structured tasks and spreadsheets. But there was a sweetness to it. A kind of unpolished sincerity that made him… endearing. And real. She wondered how this friendship—if that's what it was—would play out. They hovered around each other like two people unsure of the choreography, and yet, sometimes, it all fell into rhythm. Quiet understanding. Unspoken trust. There were still sharp edges, still questions neither of them knew how to ask. But there was also calm. A strange sense of being okay, if only for a moment.

She placed the ring on her nightstand, then unclasped the necklace and held it up to the light once more before setting it gently beside the ring. Her fingers lingered on the opal, thumb brushing over the stone like she was trying to memorize the texture of thoughtfulness.

Delilah changed into something soft and old—her favorite oversized sleep shirt—and climbed into bed. The silence was comforting, not empty. No slamming doors, no voices raised in regret. Just her, the quiet hum of the city outside, and the faint shimmer of a gift she hadn't expected from a man she was beginning to understand, slowly, piece by careful piece.She curled onto her side, fingers tucked under her chin, a small smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Odd man," she murmured to no one. And then, more quietly: "But sweet." Sleep came gently, wrapped in gratitude and a strange, tentative hope.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian woke as he always did on Saturdays. But it didn't feel like a usual morning. His body stirred with the familiar rhythm of habit, but his mind refused to obey the same commands. There was no stretch, no mental checklist of the errands he usually rattled through, no immediate swing of legs to floor and the drag toward coffee. Instead, he lingered. Not physically tired, but arrested by something more internal. Something softer. Something… disquieting.

It was Saturday - the morning after the Friday night market. The morning after Delilah. The thought of her name, even in silence, moved something inside him. A tremor, subtle but persistent, like the aftershock of laughter long spent. He would never have called it a date. He wasn't foolish. He knew how that word hung too heavily, too preciously, in the mouths of those who didn't understand what they were doing. It wasn't a date. Not formally. But if anyone had caught sight of them last night - walking the aisles of that low-lit bazaar, laughing beneath woven lanterns and the hush of crowd-churned warmth - they might have assumed otherwise. A couple. A flirtation. Something intimate. Something nearing meaningful.

That wasn't the part that bothered him. What unsettled him was how easily he'd remembered the glint in her eye, not at him, but at those pieces of jewellery tucked beside the incense stall. The ring she turned over in her fingers, smiling as though it had reminded her of something private. The necklace - she had touched only once, then moved on. He hadn't forgotten. It had rooted itself into him, how her attention lingered even after her body moved. It was a tiny thing, the kind of moment that could slip past a lesser man. But not Adrian.

So he had bought them, quietly, after she left to buy tea. And then, with a mix of absurd boldness and almost adolescent uncertainty, had given them to her later, feigning casualness. A whim, he had called it. A market whim. But it hadn't been whimsy. It had been precision. Intent. The act of someone who noticed things he shouldn't, or maybe just things no one else bothered to. He didn't know what she thought of the gesture. She had taken them, but had not opened the bag at his request. She didn't perform gratitude like other women. Didn't offer him the kind of reassurance he was used to, the soft smile, the girlish thank-you, the demure acceptance that validated his efforts. Her silence was its own sort of answer. It left space for interpretation. And that space was vast enough to trap a man like Adrian in circles of his own making.

He stared at the ceiling, his phone warm in his hand. He had been clutching it without realizing, waiting for some sign of her. It wasn't just about the jewellery. It was the test. Her final dish - the culinary capstone of the course she had thrown herself into with that mad, tireless passion of hers. She had been nervous about it, though she hadn't said so outright. He could tell by the way she spoke less that week, by how her usual sharp humour had dulled to something more interior. She had stayed up nights perfecting that recipe, he knew. And not just the food. The plating, the timing, the balance of textures. That obsessive attention to detail, the way her ambition bled into her art—it fascinated him, even if he didn't understand all of it. Even if she never asked him to.

He unlocked his phone and typed quickly, before he could second-guess himself:

"Text me as soon as you know you aced that test. Confirm my premonition."

He paused for a moment before hitting send, considering whether it sounded too self-satisfied. Too knowing. But it felt right - equal parts teasing and encouraging, the way he always played it with her. There was no flourish, no emoji, no pleading for a response. Just that: a gentle nudge into her world. Enough for her to know he was thinking of her, but not so much that he appeared to be waiting. Even if he was.

Message sent, Adrian finally peeled himself out of bed, though the pace of his movements felt reluctant. Everything this morning felt slightly off-kilter, as though his body had adjusted to a new orbit overnight and hadn't quite caught up to the shift. There were things to do, but none of it felt urgent. None of it felt meaningful. There was a hum in his chest he couldn't identify, a low thrum of tension - not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but something in between. Something he hadn't felt in a long time. A desire not just to know what she was doing, but to be let in on it. To be allowed to care.

He told himself it was simple. That she was interesting, and the evening had been pleasant, and it was natural to wonder. But he didn't believe it. Not fully. He knew better. He always had. From the moment she turned toward him with that cool, unreadable expression and a voice that held knives just as easily as charm, he had known she was the kind of woman who left impressions.

And he was starting to suspect she might be the kind who stayed.​

 

[Kita-san]

Saturday, Late Morning

The house was quiet in the kind of way that didn't feel peaceful. It was the quiet that came from absence—not calm, not stillness. Just a hollow left behind by someone who should've been home last night and hadn't returned. Again. Delilah blinked against the sunlight slicing between the blinds. Her head ached faintly, not from drinking—she'd avoided the bottle, though the temptation had tugged at her like an old friend—but from poor sleep. She'd stayed up too long, replaying the evening in her head. Not just the test, not just the taste of it all—but him. Adrian. His voice in the back of her mind like a remembered lyric.
She rolled onto her side, her limbs heavy under the sheets, and checked her phone. One notification.

"Text me as soon as you know you aced that test. Confirm my premonition."

A small, reluctant smile crept across her face. Adrian. He always had a way of phrasing things—never pushy, never needy. But precise. A little smug. A little sweet. Like someone who took careful notes but pretended he didn't. She didn't answer. Not yet. She didn't know her results, and she wasn't going to jinx it. But she did reread the message. Twice. Then tucked her phone away and tossed the blankets off with a huff.

The house still smelled faintly like stale perfume and last week's white wine. Her mother hadn't come home. Typical. She didn't leave notes anymore. Didn't leave anything, really. Delilah didn't let herself dwell. She laced up her running shoes, pulled her hair into a knot, and stepped outside. The pavement was warm beneath her feet, the summer sun already climbing, but the movement steadied her. Her thoughts clicked into rhythm with her breathing. She ran through streets that still held the scent of last night's market—faint spices, smoke, sugar.

Her mind wandered, inevitably, back to Adrian. He had walked beside her like someone who didn't need to lead or follow. Just… be there. Present. That laugh of his—low, unpolished, real—had echoed in her head longer than it should've. And that moment at the incense stall, the jewelry…She hadn't opened the bag until after midnight. She'd sat on her full sized bed, room lit by one small lamp in her night stand. She had pulled the necklace out first and then the ring. ring free first. It was very thought of him and she felt a bit confused by the act at the time but summed it all up to be a friendly gesture.

Back home, sweat-soaked and breathless, she threw off her running shoes and headed straight to the kitchen. Her mother's absence meant she could cook without commentary. Or questions. Or passive-aggressive hovering. Breakfast was quick but deliberate: soft scrambled eggs with a pinch of za'atar, a warm pita sliced and toasted, and thick slices of tomato drizzled in olive oil and lemon. Food was the one thing she could control. The one space where effort matched result.

Her phone buzzed just as she was taking the first bite. She unlocked the stress to see an email had come in from her school.

Subject: Final Assessment Results – Culinary Intensive Program

She opened it with an exhale—and then sat up straighter, her mouth hanging slightly open. She had aced it. Not just passed. Her instructor had written a personal note—commending her for "exceptional balance, elegance, and restraint" and extending an invitation to help cook at a private dinner party next month. A circle of established chefs. The kind of opportunity you didn't get without someone noticing. She blinked hard, re-reading the message just to make sure it hadn't changed.

Within an instantly she went to her text messages and began to type away. He response to Adrian came in an instant.

I ACED IT. You were so right. Premonition confirmed. Also—my instructor invited me to help cook at her private dinner next month. Actual real chefs. I'm still shaking. She sent the text message and paused for a moment. She couldn’t help but want to celebrate and the only person she could celebrate with was him. Of course she didn’t mind his company. Delilah began to type away again.

When are you free? I want to celebrate. You owe me a drink. Or five. Doesn’t have to be today.

She stared at the screen for a second before sending it, heart thudding with a mix of adrenaline, pride, and a thread of anticipation she couldn't quite name. And this time, she was the one waiting for a response.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian's phone lit up with a sharp chime that pierced the quiet of his penthouse - an alert that felt foreign at that hour on a Saturday. It was barely past nine, a time sacred to the quiet rituals he reserved for himself. Coffee. Silence. A few pages of something he would never finish. Nothing that required thought, certainly nothing that required effort. But the sound stirred something that wasn't quite alarm. Not dread, not obligation either. Just a quiet certainty, the kind that comes from familiarity rather than fact: he already knew it was Delilah.

No one else ever texted him this early. His assistant, Clara, knew better than to send anything before ten unless something was on fire—figuratively or literally. His social circle, such as it was, existed more in the theoretical than the real. Even the people who would call him a friend didn't reach out without some perfunctory scheduling involved. His phone was a business tool, a calendar, a scanner of documents and occasional reminder of what he owed and to whom. It was not a vessel for delight.

But this - this was her.

"I ACED IT. You were so right. Premonition confirmed. Also—my instructor invited me to help cook at her private dinner next month. Actual real chefs. I'm still shaking."

He didn't have to hear her voice to feel the crackling voltage behind those words. He could imagine the dopamine riot in her system, the kinetic high of success firing off in every part of her body, all of it ricocheting through a phone that hadn't even finished syncing his calendar yet. He smiled before he even realized he was doing it. Not the performative kind he gave during meetings when someone beneath him said something mildly clever, nor the dead-eyed smirk he saved for photographs. This was different. This was internal. Self-generating. Something warm and private.

He remembered telling her it would happen - predicting it, almost. She had sounded uncertain at the time, like she didn't quite know how to believe in the future she was building. But he had seen it clearly, maybe even more clearly than she had. The talent was obvious. What she lacked wasn't skill or discipline - it was the belief that she belonged in the same room as her own ambition. And now, here she was. Shaking, apparently. And radiant, though he didn't need a photo to know it.

Then came the second message, quicker, bolder, emboldened by her own thrill:

"When are you free? I want to celebrate. You owe me a drink. Or five."

He stared at the screen for longer than he should have. Not because he didn't know what to say - he did. Instantly. He just wanted to sit in the pleasure of that sentence a little longer. The intimacy of it, the unfiltered energy. The invitation didn't feel casual, even if it was written to sound that way. There was something layered in it: the impulse to share good news with someone specific. The way people gravitate toward those who've seen them in moments of fragility and chosen not to look away.

Adrian was not the type to indulge whims, especially not someone else's. His reputation had been built on restraint. Efficiency. Control. He calculated for a living; everything was cost, everything was return. But Delilah was starting to fall outside those margins. She was becoming the thing he didn't know how to factor. She deserved a proper celebration - not the dim, half-committed kind of evening people cobble together last-minute. She deserved a night that would confirm what she was only just beginning to understand about herself. That she was meant for more. That the world she was stepping into would be lucky to have her.

And maybe - if he was honest - he needed it too. A moment of something real. Uncurated. Loud and messy and beautiful. He typed out his reply with the same precision he used for board memos and contract language, though the sentiment behind it had none of that cool detachment:

"Text your address to this number and a car will pick you up at 7. Casual clothing is fine. It's time you had a night out someone your age should be having. Something fun."

There. Clean. Generous without being overt. Commanding without being cold. But beneath the words - underneath the efficient orchestration of an evening he hadn't even fully planned - was a different message entirely. One he wouldn't have dared say aloud, not yet.

I see you. I told you the world would make room for you. And I want to be the one who holds the door open.

He set his phone down and let the silence return around him. The day would start soon enough. There would be calls to return, decisions to make, obligations to perform. But in that moment, the only thing that felt real was the electricity left humming in the wake of her message, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing he had been right about her - and that he would be there, watching, as the world caught up.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah read Adrian's message twice. Then a third time. A car? Casual clothing is fine? A night out someone her age should be having? She blinked at the screen, startled by how quickly he'd replied. Not immediate — but quicker than she expected. It was still early, not even 9:30. She hadn't expected to hear from him until at least the afternoon. If at all. Not because he was the type to ignore people — Adrian wasn't rude — just important. Busy. He had people, and priorities, and capital-P Power oozing from every polished inch of him. She had expected silence, maybe followed by a polite, "Congratulations. Well done," sometime after lunch. But this? This was something else entirely.

She could feel her own pulse speeding up, the little flutter in her stomach that always came when she imagined herself stepping into a world she wasn't sure she belonged in. The way he'd worded it — "someone your age should be having" — it was playful, maybe teasing, but it landed like a validation she hadn't even known she was chasing. She reread the first part of the message again, smiling as she did.

Text your address to this number.

That made her hesitate. Her fingers hovered over the screen, suddenly very aware of the tiny, worn down house she called home. The kind with walls too thin to pretend you weren't surrounded, where the kitchen sink was technically part of the hallway. Her place always smelled faintly like cumin and ambition — both of which had their charm, sure — but it was a far cry from Adrian's world of glass towers and private elevators.

What was he going to think? Would he notice the peeling paint in the stairwell? The buzzer that barely worked? Would he care?

She then realized that she was making assumptions and that he never said he was coming to get her. I’m getting picked up. She told herself. She exhaled, thumb tapping out her address anyway. What was she supposed to do — lie? She sent it. Done. No point dwelling. Still, a flush crept into her cheeks as soon as the message left her screen.

Her brain scrambled for something to do to counter the strange high-laced-with-vulnerability bubbling in her chest. She turned toward the tiny counter where her knives were still drying from the quick breakfast she made this morning and tried to focus on what she knew — on food. Cooking. The one place she'd finally started to feel sure of herself.

She thought about how she had aced her assignment. Not in the way people throw the phrase around casually — she had really, truly killed it. Her instructor had smiled during the tasting, the kind of smile that meant something. She had used words like "elevated," "restrained," "elegant." And then — then — she had invited Delilah to help cook at her private dinner next month. Her. Among real chefs. People who had trained in Paris and staged in Michelin kitchens and probably had trust funds with more commas than she had pairs of socks.

Delilah shook her head, the smile breaking across her face again like a secret she couldn't keep. She had always known her food was good. But knowing and believing were two very different things. And believing? That part took time. It took people like Adrian telling her she belonged before she could even picture herself in the room. And even then, part of her had still expected to be found out. Like maybe someone would tap her on the shoulder and ask how she got past the velvet rope. But no one had. And the velvet rope had just… disappeared. And now Adrian was taking her out to celebrate.

What did that even mean? What kind of "fun" did someone like Adrian plan? A jazz bar? A rooftop with cocktails that cost more than her weekly grocery bill? She could not show up underdressed. But he had said casual… unless he meant "Adrian casual," which probably meant Italian linen and some understated watch that cost more than her tuition. She didn't even know what shoes to wear. She didn't know what this was. Because it didn't feel like just a hangout. Not really. Not when her name had jumped to the top of his attention list on a Saturday morning. Not when his message read like something between a toast and a promise.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, phone still in her hand, staring at the screen like it might shift and reveal more if she kept looking. Could this be something more? She didn't know. But she knew how he made her feel: like she was finally being seen. Not just for what she could do — but for who she was. For what she was becoming and that her past and current situation didn’t matter. Not one bit.

She stood, still barefoot, already mentally scanning her closet for something that would fit the vibe of whatever this was — whatever tonight was going to be — she was going to show up fully. No apologies. No shrinking. Because she was starting to believe what Adrian had always seemed to know. She was meant to be here.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

One of the more intoxicating aspects of Adrian's life - the wealth, beyond the ocean views from his penthouse terrace, beyond the low murmur of recognition that followed him into high-ceilinged restaurants and closed-door meetings - was how little friction there was between want and realisation. Power, in his world, wasn't loud or theatrical. It was quiet, almost elegant. A decision made. A call placed. An empire that shifted its weight to accommodate the needs of one man. There was something about that which never stopped thrilling him. Not because it inflated his ego, but because it allowed him to engineer moments - perfect ones, if he got them just right. And tonight, he wanted perfection.

It began, as such things often do, with a single address. Delilah had given it to him, reluctantly, tucked between unspoken conditions. A geographical pin dragged into the light, even though the shadows around it still lingered. He hadn't missed the subtext. Her hesitation was not performative; it was protective. She didn't want him to see her life outside the curated corners they'd shared - the flirtations at the market's crowded anonymity. And he knew why. Her mother, mostly. That fractured boundary she hadn't wanted to cross yet. He respected it, not because he didn't want to know more, but because something in her had asked him to wait. So, he made the arrangements without invading. That was the line. He would draw near but not trespass.

The car came first. Not a limousine - too performative. No black-tinted declarations of wealth. Just something discreet, luxury without noise. He wouldn't be inside it when it pulled up outside her house. That, too, would've crossed a line. He understood optics. Knew how things could be misconstrued, even when intentions were careful. Let her ride in peace. Let her come to him on her own terms.

Next came the venue. He had toyed with a few options. There were endless spaces he could've secured: rooftop gardens with live jazz quartets, candlelit restaurants with menus that didn't bother printing prices. But that didn't feel right - not with her. Delilah didn't require spectacle. She didn't ask to be dazzled. She'd seemed more herself at the night market than she ever would've been in a penthouse lounge. So he chose something different. Something that would let them be stupid, playful, maybe even a little reckless.

Barcadia. A hybrid space - arcade meets bowling alley meets late-night bar with a kitchen run by real chefs, not half-trained bartenders. It belonged to one of his subsidiaries, though most people wouldn't have known that. He had it cleared from 7 p.m. onward. No crowd. No watching eyes. Just the two of them, and the flicker of neon across waxed lanes and pinball machines, the low thud of bass from the speakers, the scent of fryer oil and whiskey and bubblegum. He told the staff to stay, but to remain invisible unless needed. This night belonged to her - to whatever shape she wanted it to take.

And then he waited. But not passively. The afternoon folded itself into fragments of responsibility. A call with his accountant, though not officially. The man was supposed to be working for him, but Adrian wanted to ensure that meant something. That his money was protected. That no one was skimming from accounts he hadn't had the time to audit properly. He worked out next, in the private gym two floors below his office suite. Focused movement, a rhythm of effort that grounded him when the rest of his day moved like silk through his fingers. He moved from machines to weights, then into the quiet heat of the sauna, letting his body flush itself clean. There was something ancient and necessary about sweating out every distraction. It made him ready. Alert.

When it came time to dress, he reached for something he rarely wore outside the confines of personal comfort: a high-end tracksuit, understated in colour but unmistakably expensive in detail, paired with clean white runners. Normally, he wouldn't be seen in anything less than a shirt and structured jacket - armour, really. But not tonight. Tonight required movement, spontaneity, ease. The kind of flexibility that couldn't happen in starched collars and cufflinks. He left without security. That, too, was unusual. But he didn't want the weight of handlers or the silent vigilance of drivers waiting in the shadows. He drove himself. It felt appropriate. There was something intimate about arriving alone, about stepping into a space you'd orchestrated not for show, but for sincerity.

Barcadia greeted him like a beast tamed only for the evening. Screens glowed faintly along the walls, machines alive but dormant. The bar lights were dimmed to a golden hum. The staff knew better than to ask questions, and the general manager, one of the few he trusted absolutely, nodded once from behind the scenes. Everything was ready.

He glanced at the time. Ten minutes to seven. She would arrive soon.

And he hoped that whatever unspoken thing lingered between them would find room to breathe here, in this temple of soft chaos and private lights. He wanted the night to be hers. But part of him, the part he rarely let show, hoped she'd find in him something worth staying for.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah stood in front of the mirror, one hand adjusting the teardrop opal at her neck, the other smoothing a curl behind her ear. Her hair fell in soft, dark waves, long and loose, the way she liked it when she wasn't trying too hard—which was the whole idea tonight. Not too polished. Not too perfect. Just her, the best version of her.

She'd gone for a cropped leather jacket—fitted, broken in just enough to hint at past mischief—over a slim, cropped, ribbed tank in soft grey. It dipped just low enough to feel like a flirt, but not a declaration. Her jeans were high-waisted, deep black, and hugged her figure like they were made for her. Ripped in a few places since that was the style. She wore a pair of sleek black combat boots that she laced up. The heel was thick and made it easy to walk in. The kind of outfit that said, I didn't think about this too long, even though she'd changed four times before settling.

Her makeup was subtle but intentional—brows brushed and defined, skin luminous with just a hint of highlight, a soft flush across her cheeks. Her lips? Glossed with a sheer rose tint, the kind that caught the light just enough. And then there were the two new pieces: the opal necklace and the ring he had bought her when they visited the night market. The pink tourmaline catching the evening light as she turned her hand. The chain shimmered against her collarbone—lavender, sea-glass green, that strange glint of gold you could only catch when it moved. It felt like wearing something enchanted.

She had no idea where they were going. Just an address. No clues. No hints. And Adrian—being Adrian—was infuriatingly good at secrets. Still, the moment the car pulled up outside her place, sleek and quiet like something from a spy movie, her heart thudded like it knew whatever was coming, it wasn't going to be ordinary. The ride was smooth. She tried not to let her brain spiral. Tried not to imagine heels on marble floors or an eleven-course menu and a sommelier she'd have to pretend to understand. But when the car finally rolled to a stop, and she stepped out into a mostly empty parking lot, her breath caught.

No red carpet. No double-parked Ferraris. No crush of people waiting to be impressed. The sign above the building glowed in retro neon: Barcadia.

What?

She walked toward the entrance slowly, confusion melting into curiosity. Then wonder. Then something close to giddy disbelief. Inside, it was all lights and color, machines lined up like soldiers waiting to be played, the faint thump of music in the background like a heartbeat. And empty. Completely, impossibly empty—except for one person.

Adrian.

She spotted him near the far end of the bowling lanes, standing like the whole place belonged to him. Which, of course, it probably did. Tracksuit. Sneakers. No pretense. And still the most magnetic thing in the room. Delilah felt the smile start deep in her chest and work its way out. She bit her lip, caught herself, and walked in like she wasn't grinning on the inside. Like this wasn't the coolest thing anyone had ever done for her. "Okay," she called across the room, playing it cool, voice light, teasing. "So, what, you booked out a whole arcade and bowling alley just so I can beat you in several different gaming areas?" She crossed the floor, her necklace catching the light with every step, and tried not to look too amazed. Tried not to let the fact that her chest felt like it might burst completely show on her face. But as she got closer, she couldn't help it. Her smile cracked wide open.

"Adrain this is…pretty cool. You really didn’t have to do this but I’m happy you did.” She said and looked around. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me to celebrate me ya know?” She couldn’t help herself, she hugged him. The excitement she felt and the warmth at Adrian gave off was all too much and she didn’t have much else to say but “Thank you for believing in me.” The hug was gently, yet intentional.

Acing her assignment was a cause for celebration and the fact that Adrain did all of this for her really made her feel special. He could have easily bought her an expensive gift or taken her to an expensive restaurant but he didn’t. He was starting to understand who she was and she was noticing that. Slowly she removed her arms from around him, ending the hug. Her chocolate brown eyes focused on his as she tried to read him. “To be honest I’ve never been bowling before so don’t laugh at me.” She teased before choosing a lane to bowl at. “Maybe a drink first would help me accept the embarrassment I’m going to cause.” She suggested and looked at Adrian.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian smiled the moment Delilah stepped into Barcadia, the automatic doors parting like the breath of some benign god allowing her entry into his little kingdom. The place was still settling into the promise of Saturday night. Neon accents glowed softly against polished concrete, the hum of vintage arcade machines idle but alive, like a room holding its breath.

She looked gorgeous. That wasn't new, and it wasn't a surprise, but something about the effortlessness of it tonight made it linger in his chest. She wasn't dressed for show. No glamour, no heels, no calculated layers - just a ribbed tank top and snug jeans, the kind of clothes most people might throw on without thinking, but on her they formed an outline that refused to be ignored. It was the kind of beauty that didn't ask for attention so much as demand reverence—casual in the way a storm cloud is casual before the lightning hits.

The tank top hugged her body in a way that defied the concept of modesty. The neckline dipped enough to remind him she wasn't hiding anything, and the thin cotton stretched just tight enough to make it impossible not to notice where the fabric met skin, and where it strained to contain her. And the jeans - God, the jeans - faded in just the right places, pulling tight across her hips and thighs in a way that bordered on the obscene. They fit her like they'd been designed around her, not tailored, not bought off any rack. Like some tailor had met her body first, worshipped every angle, then stitched denim in its honor.

He let the thought linger for a heartbeat too long before tucking it away. There would be time for that later, maybe. Or maybe not. He wasn't here to make assumptions, even if his body was already writing stories his mind hadn't agreed to. He told himself to focus. On the moment. On the night. On the idea of just spending time with her in a space that didn't ask for anything except presence. That was the appeal of Barcadia - a hybrid place that married nostalgia with the sharp tang of alcohol, the kind of joint where you could be a kid again while sipping an old-fashioned.

He'd teased her, playfully of course, about drinks before games. The rules were his own, something to anchor them to routine, to rhythm. But beneath the words was the flicker of something else - a quiet thrill at having her here. With him. In this place that knew him well enough to fade into the background. When she'd confessed she'd never bowled before, something in him shifted. Not with judgment, but with a peculiar kind of tenderness. Twenty-three years old and never bowled. Not even once. It wasn't the lack of the experience that struck him - it was what it implied. What it suggested about the missing fragments of her youth. The small rites of passage that many took for granted: greasy shoes, gutter balls, the weird satisfaction of sending a ball crashing through pins under artificial lights. It made him think of all the tiny American coming-of-age moments she may have missed. All the chaos and color of growing up in this strange, indulgent culture.

And so, in the moment, his teasing softened. His voice had curled around it with just enough mischief to mask the undertone of protectiveness. "I think we'll need to arrange a private lesson, before I kick your ass."

She'd laughed. That kind of laugh that felt like it came from her bones, full-bodied and real. And he'd led her to the bar, heart feeling something it couldn't quite name. Pride? Affection? Lust? All three, tangled together in a knot too tight to pull apart.

The space was emptu, but he'd arranged it that way. He liked having her to himself. The luxury of it. The intimacy. One staff member emerged - quick, professional, polite - and took their presence as the cue to initiate the night. Adrian watched her scan the drinks menu, and in that moment, he found himself studying her again. Not just her body, though God knew that was impossible to ignore, but the little details. The way her eyes moved as she read, the slight curve of her lower lip when she concentrated, the subtle tilt of her head. She read like someone who wanted to choose correctly, not just order something to kill time. Like she wanted her drink to mean something. Like it was part of the ritual.

He liked that about her. The deliberateness. Even in the way she was silent, she was commanding. Entire conversations lived in her silences. She never filled a room with noise, but she inhabited it. Like oxygen. Like heat. She made the air feel different when she was around. He leaned on the counter, watching her—not possessive, but entirely, devastatingly attentive.

"What will it be?" he asked, not because he needed the answer, but because he liked the question. He liked offering her choices. He liked watching her take her time. He liked being the one across from her, on this side of the bar, in this chapter of the evening, where everything felt unwritten and possible.

There were moments - brief, flickering, but potent - when he wondered what it would be like if the night didn't end. If they never had to leave Barcadia. If the games, the drinks, the teasing and soft glances could stretch forever. But he knew better. Nights like this were rare. Precious. Temporary by nature. And so he stayed in the moment. Let himself want her, just enough to enjoy it. Let the tension sit on his tongue like a slow sip of bourbon. Let the ache bloom beneath his skin and keep his smile easy, his posture relaxed, his hands in his pockets - because this, whatever this was, was only just beginning.

And she hadn't even chosen her drink yet.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah didn't need to look up to feel Adrian's gaze on her. She never needed to. It was like heat. Like stepping into the sun and knowing you were being warmed from the inside out. Even in the hush of Barcadia—neon-lit and humming like a vintage dream—his attention wrapped around her, deliberate and full of a kind of patience that could be mistaken for restraint, if she didn't already know better. He watched her like a man who appreciated architecture: slow, reverent, tracing the design of her with his eyes like she was some cathedral of muscle and skin and soul. And maybe that should've felt invasive. Maybe with someone else it would have. But Adrian didn't just look—he witnessed. It was different. Intimate in a way that required no touching.

She let her fingers trail along the laminated edge of the drinks menu, not because she hadn't already picked out something she was curious about, but because she liked letting him wait. She could feel the pull between them. Like tension strung on some invisible thread, taut but not strained. Playful. Teasing. Like two magnets circling without snapping into place. She smirked to herself. He'd said, "What will it be?" in that voice that was all ease and invitation, like this was her show and he was just the lucky guest star. But it wasn't just his words that curled through her. It was the memory of what he'd said earlier.

"I think we'll need to arrange a private lesson, before I kick your ass."

He was ridiculous. And charming. And… possibly more confident than he should be. That teasing tone of his was fast becoming one of her favorite things—because it wasn't just surface-level flirtation. There was substance under it. A kindness, a curiosity. The way he'd softened when she said she'd never bowled before… That had struck a quiet chord inside her. He hadn't made her feel dumb. Or less-than. He'd made her feel seen. And if she were honest, that was rarer than the diamonds women supposedly longed for.

Adrian noticed things. Little things. The way she paused before making decisions. The way her laugh always came a half-beat late when it was real. The way she scanned the menu now, like she was trying to figure out what kind of drink said something about her without trying too hard. He noticed, and more than that, he cared. So yeah, she dragged out the moment. Let it breathe. Let him breathe her in. She was not in a hurry. Nights like this weren't made to be rushed. And he'd arranged this. The empty arcade. The bar lit like something halfway between retro and sacred. Just the two of them, like they existed in some pocket dimension where no one else mattered.

She finally looked up. Met his gaze. She focused on the way he looked at her. Like she was a story he was halfway through reading but didn't dare rush the ending. And she could see it—all of it—in his eyes. The lust, sure. But also the fascination. The hunger to know more, not just touch more. She tilted her head slightly, letting the barest smile curl at the corner of her lips. "I read the whole menu, there’s a lot to choose from. I like what’s on here food wise too," she went on, tapping her nail lightly on the laminated page. Her eyes sparkled now. She leaned just a little closer across the bar, voice low and mischievous. "Before I order I just want to say I will kick your ass. Hopefully tonight. But if not, someday.” She teased. And then, just like that, she leaned back and tapped decisively on the drink name.

"Pixel Paradise." She looked satisfied. "Rum, coconut cream, pineapple, a splash of lime. Neon blue. Umbrella optional, but recommended." She paused again, eyes returning to his face. "Sounds fun doesn’t it?” Delilah was here to let loose and have some fun, she actually felt like she could do such a thing around Adrian now. Especially since it was just the two of them. She was hoping to see him let loose as well since she could see how careful he was being. With his words, with his body language. And she understood it. She respected it. But she also wasn't going to pretend she didn't notice the way he noticed her. The way his gaze lingered like he was cataloguing her, trying to memorize her like she might vanish if he looked away.

She'd spent enough time around men who only wanted to conquer. Adrian? Adrian wanted to understand. And she hadn't decided yet if that made him safer, or more dangerous. But either way, she wasn't running. Not tonight. She gave him one more look—playful, inviting, and just a little challenging. "So, are you going to order something? You have to. I won’t take no for an answer.” She gently pushed the menu to Adrian. “Pick something fun.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. She wasn't just here to flirt. She was here to play.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian smiled - slow, sly, touched with just enough mischief to be noticed. A knowing curl of the lip, the kind that hinted he was already three steps ahead. Delilah made her selection with effortless confidence, and he turned to the staff member behind the sleek neon-lit counter without missing a beat. "Two Pixel Paradises," he said, the name rolling from his tongue with something between amusement and approval. A curious choice, certainly. Tropical, sharp-edged, synthetic in the way some cocktails were designed to taste like memory rather than anything natural. But it suited her. Vivid, pointed. Playful.

He collected their drinks - two glasses dressed like nightclub guests, rimmed with colour and ambition - and led her across the polished floor toward their lane. The alley was humming with the low-saturation glow of LED lights and the distant thrum of pop remixes. Their names were already typed in above the lane, digitised and waiting, flickering in soft blue over the dark wood boards. Adrian glanced up at them. Adrian and Delilah. There was something deeply satisfying about the symmetry. Simple, elegant, familiar. He could get used to seeing those names paired together. He set their drinks on the nearby table and took a step onto the slick approach, gesturing toward the ball return like a stage magician revealing the final act of a trick.

"Alright," he said, turning back with a grin. "Your first lesson. Delivered privately by yours truly."

The smirk lingered as he pulled one of the house balls free, cradling its absurd, glossy weight in one hand. He didn't bother to hide the way his eyes drifted over her face and down the line of her posture as he spoke. Tonight, he didn't need the boardroom polish, the sterile gravitas of quarterly projections or investor briefings. No polished phrases, no guarded precision. He could just be a man. Himself. And right now, he was a man very much enjoying himself.

"First thing's first," he began, rotating the ball in his hands like a sculptor sizing up his medium. "It's not all brute force. This isn't about hurling the thing as hard as you can and hoping the pins scatter. It's about finesse. Control. Rhythm." He leaned back slightly, letting the ball rest on his palm, fingers laced inside the drilled holes with casual intimacy. "You want to feel the weight of it - not fight it, not overpower it. Let it carry you. Trust its momentum. The motion is more of a dance than an attack."

He took a few steps to the side, mapping out a ghost of a throw. "You'll want to line up with your dominant foot just off-centre. Grip the ball like it's something you own, not something you're afraid of. And keep your swing loose, fluid. You're not choking the life out of it. You're guiding it. Like… persuasion." He tossed her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "There's a kind of seduction to a good throw. You start slow. Controlled. Just a little sway. Then you build the momentum, draw it back, let it crest behind you - and release, smooth and low, just as your body shifts forward."

He paused and raised an eyebrow, his tone shifting ever so slightly into something deeper, more suggestive. "It's all in the follow-through, really. That last moment. That commitment to letting go." He stepped off the approach and set the ball back onto the return with a soft thunk, then took a sip of the electric-looking cocktail. The taste exploded - sweet, sour, sharp, utterly artificial - and he winced playfully, licking a bit of salt and sugar from the rim of the glass.

"I'm not going to lie," he said, dragging his finger along the condensation on the side of his drink, "I'm kind of glad you picked this one. It's ridiculous. But I like it."

He looked at her then - not just a glance, but a gaze that held. Curious. Interested. Slightly daring. "You'll get the hang of it," he added, voice velvet and warm, as if the game itself were secondary. "It's just about finding your rhythm. Knowing when to grip tight and when to let go."

And there it was again - that carefully engineered tension. The kind that danced just beneath the surface of ordinary conversation, barely tethered by pretence. The kind that made you wonder whether every word was just a little bit loaded. Whether this was still about bowling at all. The night stretched before them, all synthetic lights and low-stakes competition, but Adrian wasn't here for the strikes or the scores. He was here for the little moments - the flick of a glance, the shared laugh, the slow unravelling of masks. And Delilah, enigmatic and electric in equal measure, was already rewriting the rules of the game.

Whatever tonight became, it had already begun in the way he liked best: not with certainty, but with potential. Something unscored. Unspoken. On the cusp. And Adrian, ever the strategist, knew better than to rush a promising play.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah's smile bloomed in slow motion, unhurried and luminous, like a spark catching on velvet. There was something utterly charming—maybe even disarming—about the way Adrian was leaning into this moment. Not just the scene—the glow of neon, the music thumping like a shared heartbeat, the cocktails that tasted like tropical lies—but this side of him. This relaxed, magnetic, playful version that traded crisp strategy for suggestive metaphors and low, velvet words that curled in her ears like smoke.

When he made his way to the bowling area after they received their drinks she followed him, the heels of her boots clicking lightly on the polished floor. Her eyes flicked up to the glowing screen. Adrian and Delilah. The pairing looked good together—too good, honestly—and the flutter that stirred in her chest was equal parts amusement and intrigue.

She sat on the bench once Adrian had chosen a lane for them, she couldn’t help but smile as she swirled the electric blue liquid in its shimmering rimmed glass. "Pixel Paradise," she murmured, raising an eyebrow. "I’m not mad at this at all." She really did like the taste of her drink. It was like a party in her mouth. There was a subtle sweetness to her voice, the kind that made it clear she wasn't just talking about the drink. But it was when Adrian stepped onto the lane, house ball in hand, that her interest sharpened. She took a sip and watched him with a slow-building smile—first amused, then openly delighted. He looked ridiculous, in the best way. All that boardroom confidence now focused on explaining bowling like it was seduction.

And honestly? It was working.

As he lined up the throw, letting the ball rest on his palm with a kind of reverence, Delilah couldn't help but let out a low, genuine laugh—light and musical. "I never thought I'd see you like this," she said, voice bright with surprise. "Teaching bowling like it's some ancient art form. She tilted her head, a teasing light dancing in her eyes. She giggled again, genuinely, the sound slipping past her lips before she could catch it. It surprised her—how easy this felt. How he wasn't trying too hard, and yet still had her feeling like she was the center of some slow-burning, perfectly balanced scene.

Delilah stood up and looked at the bowling balls. She picked one that felt comfortable in her hand, not too light, not too heavy. She stepped forward, holding the glossy ball in one hand, watching his pretend throw with amused admiration. “I think this all works for me. What do you think?” She asked since she wasn’t sure if she did pick the right one. Either way she liked how it felt and she liked the color. Her eyes stayed on him for a moment longer than necessary, catching the heat beneath his smirk. "Who knew Adrian Wolfe had such poetic thoughts about bowling?"

She mimicked his stance playfully, eyes glinting as she tried to remember his steps. "Okay, dominant foot off-center, don't strangle the poor thing, and… persuasion, was it?" She shot him a sideways glance, one brow arching. "Is that what we're calling it now?" Her voice lowered just a notch, matching his earlier tone. "I think I get it. It's not about force. It's about… knowing when to let go." She was still smiling—wider now. Not the polished, poised smile she wore while working as a bartender or bottle girl. This was something brighter, more real. He'd planned this for her. This whole neon-drenched, low-pressure, high-flirtation night. And she was loving every second of it.

With a soft shake of her head and another laugh, she ball down and picked up her drink for one more sip. “Well I think I would like to go first.” She set her drink down and went back to the same ball she had before. Once in her hands she began mimicking the way he'd cradled it. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

"Alright, Wolfe. Let's see how good of a bowling instructor you are" she said, eyes locked on his. Then she turned toward the pins, a grin still tugging at her lips—because this wasn't just about the game. Not really. This was about what it felt like to be seen, to be chosen, to play in the moment with someone who made you want to stay in it. And tonight, she was very much playing.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian leaned against the smooth curve of the bench, his eyes quietly following Delilah's every move as she mimicked his earlier demonstration - half playful, half precise. There was something compelling in her effort, a kind of mischievous commitment that straddled the line between flirtation and focus. She wasn't just copying; she was inhabiting the role, exaggerating the motions with a subtle grin, teasing him with an echo of his own confidence. He smiled in spite of himself - an easy, unguarded smile, the kind that had become a stranger to his face in recent years.

"Ladies always first," he had said, when she made a cheeky suggestion to take the opening shot. It was meant as a casual chivalry, an old-school gesture. But Delilah had taken him up on it, laughing as she chalked the cue with exaggerated finesse, stepping into the moment as though it were a stage. He watched now as she lined up her shot. And then, without warning or apology, the thought entered him - an instinctual, utterly human awareness of her body as she leaned over. Her jeans, snug and worn, hugged her with casual familiarity, and the arch of her lower back pulled his attention like gravity. There was no hiding from it. There she was: self-possessed, magnetic, utterly in her element - or maybe not. That was the question, wasn't it? Did she know what she was doing? Was she presenting herself like this on purpose, aware of the effect it might have? Or was it all unintentional, the innocent posture of someone unaccustomed to bowling and oblivious to how that positioning might pull the male gaze like a magnet over iron filings? He couldn't tell. And, in truth, he didn't care.

The line between conscious seduction and accidental allure was too thin to walk anyway, and whatever the case, he was caught in it. Not trapped - released. That was the strange part. This wasn't some teenage hormonal kick or even a desperate midlife grasp at vitality. It was something looser, freer. Watching her, he felt himself loosen too. As if for the first time in a decade, the tight cords of his life - tension wound from years of duty - began to slacken. One by one, they released their grip. It took Delilah, this woman fifteen years his junior, to show him how much of life he'd placed in cold storage. To remind him that being alive wasn't just about endurance - it could be about joy.

That was the thing about her. She wasn't some naïve ingenue stumbling into his life to teach him lessons he didn't ask for. She wasn't even trying to change him. She just was, and in being so vividly, effortlessly herself, she had opened something dormant in him. Not awakened it with a thunderclap, not torn the curtain with some great epiphany. Just...opened it. Like sunlight filtering into a sealed room, warming the dust and shadows without demanding they disappear. Adrian found himself watching her not just with desire - though that was certainly there - but with something softer, almost reverent. The way her hair caught the dim light and shimmered gold for half a second. The unselfconscious way she moved, like she had never been told to be small. Like no one had ever tried to tame her. She moved like a woman who knew herself and had made peace with the knowing. It was not arrogance. It was simply presence.

He wondered how long it had been since he had felt present. Years, certainly. Maybe since his twenties. Life had become a series of tasks and timelines, responsibilities stacked like bricks, each one heavier than the last. Somewhere along the way, he had stopped noticing how the air felt on his skin, how laughter curled in his chest before escaping, how warm it could feel to be simply near another human being - especially one like her. There was no agenda here, no score to settle, no performance to maintain. She wasn't asking him to be younger. She wasn't asking him to be anything.

And somehow, in that freedom, he found the best parts of himself coming to the surface again. Not the polished version he had offered the world, but the raw, honest version buried beneath decades of compromise. The one who once danced without checking who was watching. The one who loved bad poetry and good whiskey. The one who believed in late nights and slow mornings, who believed in connection that didn't require explanation. He didn't know what this moment between them would become - whether it was the start of something or simply a beautifully lit stop along the road - but it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was here, feeling the low thrum of possibility in his bones again.

He straightened up, cue in hand, the corners of his mouth still tugged into that boyish grin he thought he'd long outgrown. "All right, hotshot," he murmured, not so much to her as to the room, to the moment, to himself. "Let's see what you've got."

And just like that, something long silent inside him stirred.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah felt his gaze long before she looked at him—felt it the way you feel a change in the air before a storm, a quiet shift in pressure that makes the skin on your arms prickle. It wasn't the casual glance of a man watching a game. This was heavier, slower, like the way someone runs their fingers over a page they've read a hundred times but still want to memorize.

She took a deep breath before pulling her arm back as she got closer to the lane. Then without throwing the ball too hard she released it, allowing to roll down the lane at a decent speed. Because this was all new to her she felt a rush of adrenaline, this excitement may have seemed a bit much but for her it was perfectly normal. The ball took down most of the pins which delighted Delilah. The young woman did her best to play it cool. She straightened, not abruptly, but in a long, unhurried line, aware of how the movement might read from where he was standing. She kept her eyes down for a moment, giving herself the quiet indulgence of feeling his attention without meeting it, like holding a secret in her palm. When she did look at him, she let the smile come naturally—small at first, but then curling wider, layered with victory, challenge, and a flicker of something she didn't name.

"Hotshot, huh?" she said, tasting the words as if they were worth savoring. She was teasing, yes, but there was a thread of curiosity running underneath, because she'd caught it—that shift in him. The way his grin seemed… different. Younger. As if he'd stepped a little out of himself without realizing. She started toward him, slow and deliberate. Her boots made that soft, muted sound against the floor, a rhythm that gave her space to think. What was this man to her, really? Just a game, a moment, a spark to light the otherwise quiet air? Or was he something more dangerous—the kind of man who might look at her and see her, not just the edges she let the world touch? She wasn't sure. And not knowing made her pulse quicken in the most inconvenient way.

"Not too bad for my first time right?” She asked and grabbed her drink. “You might be a good teacher after all. To be honest you’re a pretty successful guy anyway. What wouldn’t you be good at this.” She said simply but honestly. Adrian had it all, people wished to be him. People looked up to him. It seemed the only thing he was missing was a successful romantic relationship which Delilah felt like he could easily have if he just opened up a little bit more. But she wasn’t one to talk, she was just as closed off as he was or at least she use to be.

“You sure you want to start something with me?" she asked, tilting her head just enough for a strand of hair to slip forward. Her voice was lighter than her thoughts, but she meant the words. She did play to win—but her victories weren't always the kind you could measure in points. This side of Adrian was starting to rub off on her. She liked the way his guard had thinned without her having to push. She liked the way he was looking at her now, as if she'd unsettled something that had been sleeping in him for too long. “

After a few sips on her drink she took a seat next to him. “Your turn.” He eyes lingered on him for a moment before the sound of her bowling ball rolling back onto the rack caught her attention. Again she couldn’t help but think that this place was the perfect way to celebrate her success. She was having a lot of firsts with Adrian and she didn’t mind that. It seemed as if he was also having a lot as well. She glanced back at him finally, the corners of her mouth curling again. "You better not beat me," she said, her tone laced with that quiet dare. "Show me what you've got."

Inside, she was already thinking about how easily the air between them could change. One choice—his or hers—and the game wouldn't just be about bowling anymore. It would be about something else entirely. Something she wasn't ready to name, but wasn't willing to walk away from either.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

"You better not beat me."

The words rang with something more than just a challenge. They clung to the air with teasing intent, charged not with menace, but with flirtation. They weren't a dare so much as an invitation - one that awakened a flicker of amusement deep within Adrian. He could feel it stir just beneath the surface of his self-control: that part of him honed in boardrooms and strategy meetings, the part that relished competition not because he feared losing, but because winning was simply how he understood the world.

But this - this wasn't the sterile battlefield of quarterly reports or corporate takeovers. This wasn't profit margins or market dominance. This was…something else. Something warmer, more intimate. A casual game in a setting designed for lightness, levity. A moment suspended from the usual pressures of his meticulously ordered life. And yet, the competitive streak still surged to life. Reflexive. Automatic.

Still, he grinned. "Be careful what you wish for," he said, letting the phrase linger, almost tasting it, savouring the weight of suggestion wrapped in something so apparently harmless. Then he added, with the tone of a man crafting rules not just for fairness, but for pleasure, "OK - here's the game. Five balls each. Whoever knocks down the most pins chooses what we do next. But there's a catch. The loser gets to pick the reward for the next game."

The implication was simple, but the possibilities infinite. There was something delicious in the balance of it - of control and surrender, of risk and reward. He had learned, in his life of precision and power, that games were never truly about the mechanics. They were about leverage. Dynamics. Desire. And this game, with its glinting pins and polished wood and artificial light, was no different.

He stepped forward and picked up a ball. It was heavier than he remembered, the weight settling into his palm like a long-forgotten memory. Bowling was not his game. He had no illusions of prowess. His body remembered the basics -how to grip, how to align, how to swing without overthinking. He hadn't bowled in years, maybe longer. But he had no intention of fumbling now. His stance was measured, deliberate. He moved into the lane's glow with the quiet confidence of a man who had closed billion-dollar deals while barely blinking. He wasn't here to prove himself. That had already been done, a thousand times over, in darker suits and colder rooms. But still - this moment asked for something from him. Asked for performance. For poise. For style.

He released the ball. It rolled down the lane in a smooth, nearly silent arc, spinning slightly as it travelled. Not perfect. He knew that as soon as it left his hand. But it was respectable. Solid. It struck the pins with a gratifying crash, sending most of them skittering across the polished surface. Not a strike, but close enough to satisfy. He watched as two pins remained - stubborn, but inconsequential.

Eight.

He turned, expression unreadable at first, then softened into a slow, knowing smirk. He wasn't trying to gloat. Not really. But there was something in him that wanted to communicate what words couldn't - wanted to let her see the glint in his eye, the restrained swagger in the way he held himself. Not cocky. Just confident. Teasingly so.

"Eight-seven," he said, voice low and amused. "Let's see how close you are at the end."

He left it at that. No further boasting, no need for excessive commentary. He liked that the rules were simple but the stakes were fluid. The outcome wasn't what mattered - not really. It was everything beneath it. The tension. The subtext. The anticipation. The way this game was becoming less about pins and more about the delicious uncertainty of what came next.

He let his gaze drift just slightly - took in the contrast between the stillness of the lane and the kinetic energy that now pulsed beneath his skin. This wasn't about being good at bowling. This was about showing up with intention. About creating a moment and filling it with charge. His mind, ever strategic, began running with possibilities for what "next activity" might mean. And if he lost - well, that intrigued him even more. Because the real pleasure wasn't just in control, but in the surrender of it. There was something exquisite about imagining what she might choose for a reward. Something tailored. Wicked. Designed to test him in the best possible ways.

Yes. This was a game worth playing. And he had every intention of playing it well.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah felt the weight of his gaze before she even looked at him. That easy confidence of his—it didn't rattle her, but it did something far more dangerous. It made her want to match it. Challenge it. Maybe even toy with it.
The terms of the bet rolled around in her mind like the ball she had previously held, smooth and solid in her palm. If I win, I get to pick what we do next. If I lose, I choose the prize for the next game. She thought as she bit the inside of her cheek, realizing she couldn't quite decide which outcome she preferred.

Winning meant taking control immediately, which was tempting—she could make him play a game that she felt like she could win. She could pick something that might not be in his favor, set the pace, claim the moment. But losing? Losing meant she could bide her time, plant a seed, and let him stew in curiosity about the prize might be for the second round of gaming. There was something intoxicating about the idea of him knowing she was planning something and having to wait to find out what the prize it. It could be nothing she wanted, it could something that benefited her. Most people might choose money or a gift. There’s not way I would want that as a prize. I want something that will be difficult for him to give. She thought and smirked to herself.

Her mind, ever quick to color outside the lines, wandered through possibilities. Her eyes flicked back to him. He stood there like a man who already knew the ending but was willing to let her play along. That smirk wasn't loud or showy—it was the subtle, infuriating kind, the kind that dared her to knock it off his face. "So…" she said, drawing out the word, letting it hang between them as she turned the ball in her hands. "If I win, I get to pick what's next. If I lose, I get to pick the prize for the next game." She tilted her head, studying him as if she might find the answer there. "Which… in its own way… might be even better." She could see the flicker in his eyes—interest, calculation—and it thrilled her. "You've basically given me a win-win here, Adrian," she added, lips curving into a grin that was almost smug. "Almost makes me wonder if you would try to lose."

When Adrian took his shot she began to regret her last comment. Maybe he’s not trying to lose. She thought since he had knocked over more pins that her. Delilah quickly finished her drink before she stood up since it was her turn to bowl. She stepped forward, deliberately closing the distance between them until the faint heat of his body brushed against hers. Just enough. The clean, understated scent of him caught her, anchored in her senses. After a short paused she moved towards her bowling ball. “Alright, let’s get a strike.” She muttered to herself as she picked up her ball.

Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she walked to the lane, rolling her shoulders to loosen the tension in them. She could feel his attention following her, and the knowledge sent a ripple of awareness down her spine. She lined up her shot, feet planted, the ball's weight steady in her grip. She did her best not to overthink it—just swing, not too hard, and release. Let the ball do its work. She pushed it forward with a smooth motion, and it rolled straight, gaining speed as it closed in on the pins. The impact was sharp and satisfying—pins scattering in a white burst, the crash echoing down the lane. She exhaled a short laugh, pleased with herself, even before she counted them.

Seven. Again. Not perfect. Not bad either.

She turned back toward him, her expression open, almost sweet—if not for the sly edge in her eyes. "Your move," she said, though what she meant was your turn to wonder what I'm thinking. Delilah was trying her best not to worry, she wanted to come off as calm. To show she wasn’t so worried she went to the bar to order herself another drink and some French fries. Though she couldn’t stop herself for looking back at Adrian, wondering if he would get a strike this time. Please don’t…I will never hear the end of it. She thought but smiled to herself. Delilah was truly having fun.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian was really enjoying the rhythm they'd stumbled into, the subtle dance of conversation and competition that had been unfolding between them all evening. Delilah - fifteen years younger, yet somehow old enough in spirit to hold her own - possessed this strange combination of defiance and allure that wrapped itself around his thoughts like silk with an edge. She wasn't just playing a game with him; she was pulling him into something more intricate, a current he was both wary of and eager to drown in. The gap in their ages didn't seem to matter - if anything, it was a kind of electric tension humming between them, a reminder that the attraction had layers he hadn't quite dared to peel back yet.

There was something about her presence that complicated his certainty. She challenged him without outright confrontation, made him think twice about his next move. Every glance she gave, every shift in her tone, had this calculated spontaneity, as if she knew exactly how to keep him from settling into predictable comfort. It made him wonder about the game they were playing, the unspoken stakes of it. Was this just a harmless evening with friendly competition and drinks? Or was there something beneath it - something unspoken but understood - that made every exchange between them feel charged?

His mind wandered over the question of rewards. Would it be more satisfying to win the next round outright, to feel that small rush of dominance, or to play a longer game, letting her catch up just enough to keep the tension sharp? It wasn't about the score so much as the pulse of anticipation between them. In that moment, a decision crystallised - quick, instinctual. He would take the shot seriously. He picked up the next ball, weighing it in his hands. The polished surface reflected the overhead lights, cool against his skin. He could feel the faint hum of competitiveness building in his chest, that boyish urge to push just a little harder, to show her he wasn't going to make things easy. The release felt clean, precise, the sound of the ball cutting through the lane almost satisfying enough on its own. Nine pins fell. Almost perfect.

Almost. Inside, he felt a playful stab of irritation. He'd wanted the strike - wanted that neat, definitive moment of perfection - but the game had given him just short of it, leaving one stubborn pin upright, mocking him. It was a reminder that even when you think you've got control, something small can tilt the balance. Still, the score worked in his favour. His lead widened, the numbers tilting towards him in a way he couldn't help but savour.

Adrian watched her move across the space, the low light casting a warm edge to the scene. She didn't ask; she just went, with the kind of casual assurance that drew his attention without trying. She made her way toward the bar, ordering another drink, some food, carrying herself with an ease that suggested she was entirely comfortable here, even though she was technically his guest. And that was what he liked - the way she didn't act like she owed him the performance of being hosted.

It struck him that this was a side of her he was only just beginning to see. There had been glimpses before - moments where her independence flickered through - but now it was standing in the open, unapologetic. She wasn't waiting for his approval, and he respected the hell out of that. It reminded him of why he'd been drawn to her in the first place. There was no simpering gratitude, no playing small to make him feel larger. She could take what she wanted, order what she liked, decide for herself how the evening unfolded.

He found himself loving it - the unapologetic comfort, the refusal to shrink. It gave her a kind of magnetic charge, a presence that felt bigger than her frame. This wasn't just about her being younger or him being older. It wasn't even about the age gap at all. It was about two people occupying a space where curiosity and attraction blurred into something that had its own set of rules.

The scoreboard might have been simple - just numbers ticking upward in neon light - but beneath it, there was another kind of score being kept. Not in points, but in glances, in pauses, in the invisible pull that made him notice the way her mouth curved when she was quietly pleased with herself, or the way her eyes sharpened when she was determined to beat him. It was the kind of tension that made the air feel denser, the kind that promised the evening wasn't just going to end at the end of the game.

Adrian let the moment stretch, the weight of the lead sitting comfortably in his mind. But he wasn't foolish enough to think the gap couldn't close - on the scoreboard, or anywhere else. And maybe, just maybe, he didn't want it to close too quickly.​