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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[Kita-san]

The message had surprised Delilah when she was working but she soon realized what it meant. Adrian was ready to fulfill the deal they had made and she was more than ready to cook a pasta meal he would never forget. The day of the meeting started out normal but when evening hit, her mother’s alcoholic behavior came out.

The home was too quiet when Delilah stepped out of her bathroom, damp hair brushing her shoulders. Her skin still carried the heat of the shower, but the tension clung tighter. The fight with her mother hadn't left her; it sat beneath the surface like a bruise she couldn't stop pressing. The argument had been typical, which somehow made it worse. Her mother's slurred denials, her defensive rage. The empty promises. And the final blow—Delilah's favorite necklace, a small, battered gold thing with a black stone center, gone. Sold for cash, pawned like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing.

By the time Delilah had slammed the door behind her while delving the house, she wasn't even angry anymore. She was hollow. Just tired.

When she arrived at Jack’s he simply let her into the back and crossed his arms while looking her over. “Someone pissed you off today?” He asked.

“You know. The usual.” She added since she really didn’t want to get into it. She didn’t know Jack that well but he had a way of pulling things out of Delilah even when he didn’t care to hear what she had to say. She could relate to his straightforward remarks and his sarcasm. “The ingredients you requested are at your station. Keep clear of my workers.” He warned. “Got it Jack.” She waved him off and began to work.

She'd chosen tagliatelle with white wine–braised halibut, roasted fennel, and gremolata. A dish that spoke of precision, patience, and depth. A dish with weight. The halibut had been marinated earlier—Jack's prep guy had followed her texted instructions to the letter. It braised now in a Dutch oven, simmering low with white wine, shallots, bay leaf, and a whisper of cinnamon. It was fragrant, tender. Haunting.

While it reduced, she rolled the fresh pasta herself—wheat flour and eggs, kneaded with the kind of force only heartbreak gives. Her hands moved fast, with an edge that told onlookers not to interrupt. She was in the zone. Not the serene kind. The surgical kind.
She sliced the roasted fennel bulbs thin, added them to a pan with olive oil and lemon zest, and started building the flavor base. Delilah moved like a woman with something to prove and too much to say. Each stir, each knife stroke, each flick of salt was punctuation on a sentence she hadn't spoken yet. Her thoughts drifted only once—back to her mother's voice, raspy from vodka and desperation.

"I needed it, Delilah. You don't even wear that old thing anymore."

As if that made it hers to sell. Delilah shut it out. Ground herself in the work. If pain had taught her anything, it was how to turn it into fuel. The tagliatelle boiled fast—just ninety seconds. She drained it, added it to the pan of braised halibut and fennel, tossed it with a touch of the reserved broth and a splash of cream to bind. She finished it with a handful of fresh gremolata—parsley, garlic, lemon zest, finely chopped—and a dusting of pecorino.

Bright. Complex. Gutsy. She plated with restraint: a neat twirl of pasta, a few pieces of rabbit, the fennel nestled beside. No foam. No flowers. Just clarity. Truth.

Jack had glanced at Delilah every now and then. He took note of how quickly and precise she moved in the kitchen. Even if she didn’t exactly know what she was doing or where she was going you couldn’t tell. Delilah of course asked Jack to try some of her food when he seemed like had some spare time. The man groaned, acting as if he didn’t want to but that wasn’t the case at all.

After a few bites he nodded his head. “He’ll like it.” A smirk formed on his face and Delilah did her best not to roll her eyes. The smirk on Jack’s face was all she needed to see to known that he approved her dish but he couldn’t just give her a compliment. He’ll like it. What kind of answer is that. Of course he will. She thought and smirked to herself once her back was turned.

Delilah wasn’t sure if Adrian had arrived yet so she checked the time. There’s no way a guy like him would be late. She thought as she pulled out her cellphone.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian's day had unfolded like a carefully choreographed routine - predictable in its structure, if not always in its outcomes. The morning had been dominated by client meetings, a carousel of polished smiles and thinly veiled negotiations, each conversation peppered with calculated charm and the subtle weight of power dynamics. He navigated them with ease, the way he always did, relying on the same professional cadence and precise vocabulary that had taken him this far in his career. It wasn't excitement he found in these encounters, but a sense of control, of order. And order, for Adrian, was everything.

The afternoon had soured the rhythm. The shareholder conference call had begun with customary niceties before descending into a series of pointed questions and veiled threats, as a few more ambitious investors tested his composure. He kept the upper hand, but only just. Then came the real detour: the dismissal.

The employee in question had been with the company for three years - smart, ambitious, and evidently not half as discreet as he'd thought. The evidence had been overwhelming: flagged emails, encrypted chats, one damning spreadsheet. Insider trading. A miscalculation that could've pulled Adrian directly into the fallout if the compliance team hadn't intercepted it early. It wasn't just a betrayal of trust - it was a threat to everything Adrian had built. Legal teams had already been notified, statements were being drafted, and the fallout would inevitably involve court proceedings. But that storm wasn't his to weather tonight. Not yet.

Because tonight belonged to something—someone—else entirely. Delilah.

Their arrangement was never something Adrian named out loud, but it had become an integral part of his life in its own silent way. Not routine, exactly - Delilah refused to be predictable - but something close. A reprieve from the suits and scripts. A recalibration of sorts. He arrived precisely on time, not out of anxious anticipation but because punctuality was part of how he maintained control, even in the situations where control would soon be a fluid thing.

He didn't head into the kitchen. That was her space, and Adrian knew better than to intrude upon it. There was a sanctity there, a line neither of them ever crossed. He didn't knock or call out. He simply texted, a brief message: letting her know he was here, where she could find him whenever she was ready. He had no doubt she would see it, eventually. Delilah had a way of making him wait - not out of disrespect, but because she moved at the rhythm of her own choosing. That was part of the appeal. She didn't bend to him. She didn't have to.

He took his seat at the private table just outside the kitchen. It was removed from the rest of the house, set apart by design and intention. The lighting was low, the furniture minimal and elegant, all chosen to her taste, not his. And he liked that, too - that it was hers. This space belonged to her in the same way she seemed to command every room she entered. There was something in the air here - charged, but unspoken. A scent he couldn't name. A quiet tension.

The chaos of the day clung to him like smoke. That final confrontation with the dismissed employee had left something burning behind his ribs - rage, betrayal, maybe even fear. The man had called him a coward. A hypocrite. Accused him of hiding behind legal teams and paper shields. "You think your hands are clean?" he'd shouted, as security dragged him out. "They're just better covered." Adrian hadn't responded. He hadn't needed to. The man was wrong - but he also wasn't entirely wrong. There were shadows in Adrian's world, and he'd made peace with them long ago. But peace could be exhausting.

That was what Delilah offered. Not forgiveness, not redemption, but relief. A letting go. The kind that came with whispered instructions and firm hands. With leather and silk. With permission not to be in control. He stared at the screen of his phone again, the sent message glowing back at him. Then he placed it face down on the table. Whatever time she took, he would wait.​

 

[Kita-san]

Her phone buzzed. One vibration. One message.

Adrian: I'm here.

That was it. No greeting. No flourish. Just those two words, and yet—her pulse kicked up a fraction. He was always careful, deliberate. But he'd come. Despite whatever day he'd had, despite whatever kept his jaw tense and his eyes darker than usual—he showed up. Delilah didn't respond. She didn't need to. Instead, she exhaled once, slowly, and reached behind her neck to untie the knot of her apron. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and folded in her hands like second skin. She set it down neatly on the prep table, smoothing it once with her palm.

Her compact mirror came out of her pocket next. A quick check—no smudged mascara, no sauce on her cheek—and then a swipe of gloss. Nothing too dramatic. Just a sheen, a softness. She liked the way she looked tonight. No heavy makeup, no distractions. Just her. The real version. The one he'd asked for—without ever needing to say it out loud.

“Jack, can I take one?” She asked and pointed to one of the red wine bottles stacked nearby. “You spend one day here and you think you’re entitled to everything.” Jack commented and crossed his arms. “I think I earned it.” Delilah said honestly, her face showing no sarcasm. She was serious. “Take it.” Jack said. Hearing that answer made her smile. She happily took the bottle, grabbed her bag and made her way to the table she would be sitting at with Adrian.

“Hello.” She said simply. She didn’t give him time to answer since she was just dropping off her things. She set the wine bottle on the table before looking at Adrian. “I’ll be right back with the food.” She soon disappeared to the back kitchen. Delilah gave her plates one last look before she lifted two plates from the counter with steady hands.

The scent lifted around her, elegant and earthy, with notes of citrus and anise. The kind of dish you led with when you wanted to speak without words. Tagliatelle with white wine–braised halibut, roasted fennel, and gremolata. Delicate. Bright. Confident. She didn't cook it to impress—she cooked it because it said something. And because tonight, so did she.

She walked toward the door that led to the side table without hesitation, her heeled steps measured but firm. She didn't feel nervous. Not even a little. What she felt was sharper than that. Excitement. Adrian believed in her. He'd said it without saying it—through action, through challenge. Through showing up. And she wanted to meet that belief with something undeniable. She wasn't cooking to impress him, not exactly. She was cooking to honor the space he made for her. The risk he'd taken. She wanted him to taste this meal and know—not just that she belonged here, but that she wouldn't waste what he saw in her.

The side room opened quietly. And there he was. Now she was able to fully look at him, she had been moving so quickly to get herself settled and to get the food that she didn’t really look him in the face until now. Adrian sat exactly how she expected him to—centered, composed, in control but visibly carrying something under the surface. She read it instantly. His posture was perfect. He looked up the moment she entered, and she saw it—his energy was off. Coiled. Tired. The tension in his jaw, the dull fire behind his eyes. Something had scraped at him today. But still, he was here. And suddenly, the echo of her mother's voice—the cruelty, the selfishness, the way it had taken up space in her chest like rot—was gone. Like it had never happened. Because this moment mattered more.

Delilah stepped up to the table and set his plate down in front of him, then her own. Carefully. With intention. “Hope you're hungry," she said lightly, the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth. Then she sat down across from him, crossing one leg over the other. Her posture wasn't defensive, or flirty, or rehearsed. It was open. Natural. Her gaze found his again—still stormy, still guarded—and softened. She didn't ask him about his day. Not yet. If he wanted to tell her, he would. But for now, she just let herself look at him, really look, in the way she always did.

"I went bold tonight," she said. "Thought it suited the occasion."

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian had watched her arrive with the wine and her personal effects, her presence as quiet and effortless as breath. There had been no fanfare, no performance - just a woman entering a space she had already made feel like hers. He hadn't moved, hadn't offered comment or gesture, as she disappeared briefly back into the kitchen, leaving only the soft echo of her footsteps and the faint clink of glassware behind her. Seconds later, she returned, this time with the plate she had prepared. He registered the scent first - heady, bright, and indulgent. An intoxicating harmony of halibut, roasted fennel and gremolata. Whatever weight had been pressing on him from the day lifted as the aroma settled around him like a promise. He stared at the plate for a moment before glancing up, intending to offer a nod of thanks or appreciation, something simple. But when his eyes met her, the words caught in his throat.

She looked radiant - not in the rehearsed, artifice-heavy way he was used to seeing her at Velour, beneath the glare of stage lighting and the suffocating layers of makeup, sequins, and illusion. No, this was something quieter. Truer. The transformation wasn't dramatic, but it was striking. She looked like someone who had stopped performing, who had finally let herself be seen. This, he thought, was Delilah. The real version. Not the fantasy. Not the persona. Just her. And it was enough to silence every cynical instinct he had built up over the years.

"This smells promising," he said aloud, but mostly to himself, voice tinged with a quiet surprise that bordered on reverence. He reached for his fork, twirling the fresh tagliatelle expertly, watching as it wrapped itself around the tines like golden silk. He speared a piece of the halibut next, examining its delicate flake, the seared edge giving just the right suggestion of crisp before he finally lifted the bite to his mouth.

The effect was immediate. As he began to chew, every part of him responded. The fish melted into richness, barely needing teeth; the pasta, coated in a velvety sauce he suspected had been balanced with the kind of intuition most chefs twice her age lacked, sang with subtlety and precision. A faint heat bloomed at the back of his throat, tempered perfectly by the wine she'd chosen. She hadn't just cooked. She had crafted an experience.

He didn't speak right away. It felt like it would cheapen it somehow. So instead, he simply ate - slowly, deliberately, but with unmistakable enthusiasm. Bite after bite disappeared, each one reaffirming something he couldn't quite articulate. When he finally looked up again, his expression had softened, any remnants of the hard day dissolved into the edges of a rare, unguarded smile.

"You can cook," he said, voice quiet, like he was still absorbing the full meaning of that revelation. He didn't mean it as a compliment - not in the casual, throwaway sense. It was an acknowledgement. A confession. And maybe, in some strange way, even an apology for underestimating her. For assuming he knew the full shape of her. He set the fork down, empty plate clean save for a smear of sauce he resisted licking clean. He took a sip of wine, letting the citrus and minerality cut through the last of the richness, and leaned back, studying her again.

Twenty-three. That number turned over in his mind like a stone skipping water—repeating itself again and again as if it might eventually make sense. Twenty-three. How the hell did someone that young cook like that? Not just cook, but understand flavor and composition in a way that spoke of instinct, not instruction. There were executive chefs at high-end restaurants who couldn't touch what she had just plated and served with offhand ease. She didn't look like a prodigy. That was the part that got him. She wasn't trying to impress him. There was no presentation, no dramatic flourish. Just intention. Confidence. A quiet knowing.

"Salerntino's just lost a customer," he muttered, smirking as he rested the wineglass against his lower lip. There was something almost boyish in his amusement, like he was in on some brilliant secret. A secret that had walked into his kitchen and upended the rules without even trying. He let the glass hang for a moment before he added, softly, sincerely, "You certainly delivered."

And she had - though not just the meal. She had delivered something else, something far more disarming. A shift. A moment. A possibility he hadn't anticipated. Adrian wasn't used to being surprised. He liked control. Order. Precision. But there was nothing about this, about her, that fit into the tidy boxes where he usually stored people. She was raw and real and unapologetically herself. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as immune to that as he'd once thought.

He picked up the wine again, his fingers brushing the delicate stem as he took another slow sip. The taste lingered, but it was her he was thinking of now. Not her curves or her face, not her past or her stage name. Just Delilah. The way she looked when she wasn't pretending to be anyone else. And that, he realized, was the most dangerous thing of all.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah didn't eat right away. She sat quietly — not nervously, not awkwardly, but with the sort of stillness that only comes when all of one's energy is quietly braced behind a single moment. The plate had been placed, the wine poured, her hands no longer occupied — and yet she didn't move at all, didn't even reach for her fork. She was watching him. Not with expectation, but with a sort of breathless, contained hope. Her fingers brushed the edge of her napkin without looking at it, smoothing it as if calming a restless thought. She hadn't touched her plate. Wouldn't, until he did. Because it wasn't just food she'd placed in front of him. It was her. Every ounce of instinct, every late night she'd spent bent over a recipe, tasting and adjusting, every time she'd watched others eat without ever asking for praise — it had led to this.

So she watched, silently. And when Adrian's fork sank into the halibut, when the first bite passed his lips, her own breath caught like a thread caught on a nail. The quiet between them stretched. Long enough for her to begin questioning. Too much lemon? Maybe the fennel was too bold. Did I overdo the anchovy in the gremolata—

But then she saw it.

Not in his words — because he didn't offer any, not at first — but in his posture. In the way his eyes softened just slightly. In the way he went back for a second bite, unhurried but deliberate. The tension in her shoulders unwound a fraction, but she still hadn't touched her fork. Then came the words. You can cook.

They landed like a quiet bell rung in the center of her chest. Not loud. Not flashy. Just… true.
A flush of color crept up her neck — not the kind she wore for show, not the stage-ready rouge painted on for drama, but something far more delicate. Earned. Seen. Her fingers finally curled around the stem of her glass, and only then did she allow herself to sit, to join him — the smile on her face a thing so soft and unguarded it would've startled anyone who only knew the version of her beneath spotlights. It wasn't coy or flirtatious or proud in the conventional sense. It was something deeper. Quietly luminous. “You think so?” she asked with a layer of confidence in her voice. Delilah chuckled softly and crossed her arms. “I’m glad you think so.” This time her voice was coated with appreciation. "I wasn't sure if the gremolata would work. It was a risk but I love the rush of the kitchen. Jack’s people were doing dinner service back there so it was a bit more chaotic than usual but in the best way possible.” Delilah truly did love being at Jack’s and seeing what takes place behind the scenes at the restaurant.

It was her turn to eat now, but even as she lifted her fork, her eyes flicked back to him — not seeking validation, not anymore, but out of something like wonder. Because Adrian wasn't just eating. He was savoring. She hadn't needed to impress him. She had reached him. She took a bite, and the flavors bloomed just as she'd imagined, but now they were buoyed by something else — the echo of his words. You can cook. The way he'd said it. The way he meant it. She looked down at her plate, then back at him, her expression softening with a pride that wasn't loud or boastful — it shimmered from her like heat from sun-warmed stone. This was the part of her she never showed. The part she protected like a flame in wind.

And in that moment, with him watching her not as a performer but as a person, Delilah glowed — not because she was trying to, but because when she loved something, it lit her from the inside.

Delilah took a slow sip of the wine, letting it sit on her tongue before she swallowed. It was crisp, citrus-laced, with a minerality that cut through the richness of the meal she had so carefully built — exactly what she'd hoped for. The pairing sang in harmony. She could taste the thought behind it. But more than that, she could feel the way it anchored her — grounded her in this moment with him. She watched Adrian lift his glass again, his gaze elsewhere now, reflective, the corners of his mouth still softened by whatever quiet revelation her cooking had stirred. The silence between them was no longer tight with anticipation. It had become… comfortable. Intimate, even. The kind of quiet that didn't ask to be filled.

But inside her, the space she'd held for his approval — the tension that had just barely begun to dissolve — was now turning toward something else. Something older. Her fingers lingered around the curve of the wineglass, thumb tracing the cool, delicate rim as her mind drifted.

The question.

The one she had asked him the last time they'd met. The one he hadn't answered. She wondered what he would say, when he would say it and how he would say it. It wasn’t a genuine question that was asked out of curiosity of course. She didn’t need to know for personal reasons. She didn’t see understand how man who seemed to have everything can’t find the right woman. Of course Delilah thought there was more to Adrian’s life than what she saw or assumed but she just couldn’t figure out a reason for wanting to be lonely.

She wasn't soft in the right ways. She didn't come from gentleness or ease. She came from a house that smelled like cigarette smoke and antiseptic, where love was a leash and guilt was the collar. Where her mother's voice — sharp and unpredictable — ruled every choice Delilah had made since she was old enough to be useful. She didn't date because she didn't want to. She didn't date because she couldn't. Not when every hour she wasn't working was spent managing a woman who would never stop needing, never stop pulling her back into that small, airless orbit. Not when the question always came too soon:

"So what's your family like?"

And what was she supposed to say? No man wanted her past which was also the present. Not the truth. They wanted mystery, maybe even tragedy, but not this. Not the day-to-day slog of someone whose life was already spoken for. In a perfect world, she would still choose solitude. But not like this. She would choose peace, not isolation. A quiet Sunday morning with someone who didn't need to be dazzled, someone who could sit across from her and talk about food, or books, or a strange thought that came to them at 2 a.m. But that world didn't exist for her. Not really. So she kept her smile — soft, careful, worn smooth from years of use — and lifted her gaze to Adrian again.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian swirled the last remnants of his wine, letting the deep, garnet-coloured liquid cling to the glass before taking a slow, deliberate sip. The richness of it lingered on his tongue, blending perfectly with the taste of the dish she had prepared - her effort, her offering, and, if he was being honest with himself, a quiet challenge. She had delivered on every front. He had anticipated competence, expected perhaps even a flirtation with brilliance, but she had gone far beyond that. The flavours, the care, the presentation - it had all held intention, and that intention had spoken volumes. She had put herself into it. Not just skill, not just talent, but something more personal. Something quietly defiant. And now, it was his turn.

Their evening had been building to this moment, even if neither of them had said so aloud. There had been no need. She hadn't pressed for the story again, hadn't pushed or pried. But the weight of the unspoken had thickened the air between them. He could feel it like gravity. She had made space for it, and now it pressed against his ribs, demanding honesty in return. He could no longer sidestep it. He set his glass down with quiet finality and drew in a breath - not dramatic, not performative, just necessary. What he was about to say wasn't something he gave away freely. He hadn't told anyone this - not entirely. And certainly not like this.

"I was twenty, and so was she," he began, his voice low, even. The words weren't rehearsed; they came as he felt them, unfiltered, rough in places. "It was that odd in-between stage of life. You're technically an adult, but you still carry the bruises of teenage years like they just happened. I was interning at a financial firm - one that, ironically, I now partially own. Back then, though, I was barely more than a suit with ambition, the kind of kid who didn't have much beyond raw drive and an overcompensating confidence. She, on the other hand, was studying to become a legal secretary. We met at a networking event - one of those mixer things that happen way too often in that world, where everyone's trying to outshine everyone else and impress people who aren't really listening. But with her, it was different. From the moment we locked eyes, everything else kind of faded away."

He paused for a beat, letting the image form again - youthful faces, quick laughter, the first flickers of connection flaring into something real.

"For a few months, it was... easy. Effortless. That kind of rare alignment where it just works. No games, no bullshit. We fit. And I think I could actually see it back then - our life together. Shared mornings. Ambitions growing in parallel. Hell, maybe even a dog, a mortgage, all of it."

His brow furrowed, and a bitter, almost self-mocking smile touched his lips.

"Then one day, out of nowhere, she tells me she wants to take a year off. Not from us - just from everything. From the linear path we were all expected to follow. She wanted to travel, to break out of the box, to find herself in a way the city never would allow. And she asked me to go with her. No ultimatums, no pressure. Just... come with me. Let's discover more. Of ourselves. Of each other. Of the world."

His fingers tapped lightly on the table, barely perceptible.

"But I didn't. I told myself I couldn't. My internship was the foot in the door. My career, even then, didn't allow for sabbaticals or soul-searching. I was so certain that stepping off the track would mean losing everything I'd worked for. So I stayed. She went."

He let the silence stretch for a moment, then continued, his voice quieter now.

"She came back a year later. I knew - friends told me. I even saw her once, across a street. But neither of us reached out. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe we both knew it wouldn't be the same. She's married now. Two kids. Career going strong. I've seen the pictures. The kind of life you imagine in those long, sleepless hours when you're too tired to lie to yourself. And it's strange... she was the last person to see the real me. The version I didn't armour up. The one who didn't lead with the resume or the polished smile. And she didn't run from it."

His eyes moved to the darkened window, as if the night outside might offer clarity.

"And now, years later, I wonder if I'll ever find that again - someone who sees me and doesn't flinch. Someone who doesn't want the version I've perfected for rooms full of suits and power plays, but the messier one, the raw one. The one who still dreams, despite everything."

The truth hung there, suspended between them, raw and unpolished.

"I don't know if I fucked it up forever," he added, almost as an afterthought. "But it still echoes. Her. That version of me. What could've been. What I never allowed myself to risk."

He fell quiet again, the kind of silence that doesn't demand a response but acknowledges that something real has been given. Something costly. And though he hadn't spoken her name, it felt like a name had been carved into the room, into the quiet between his confession and whatever would come next.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah didn't touch her wine. She didn't set for her fork down. She just froze to listen. Oh did she listen. It wasn't the kind of listening most people knew how to do—nodding politely, waiting for their turn to speak. No. Delilah listened, her entire body leaning into the quiet between his words, her expression open and unguarded. Her gaze never left his face, not even when his eyes dropped to the glass or turned toward the window. She held the silence like a vow, letting him have the space to unfold his truth without interruption, without judgment.

She hadn't expected him to answer the question she'd asked the last time they had met. Not really. People like Adrian didn't reveal themselves easily. And yet here he was, giving her not just an answer, but himself—unvarnished, vulnerable, and startlingly honest. And it surprised her. Not because she thought he was incapable of that kind of honesty, but because it came from such a wound. She hadn't realized the question would stir something so heavy in him. She felt a small twinge of guilt in her chest, like maybe she'd asked something too intimate, pulled on a thread she didn't have a right to touch. But even with that weight, she was glad he told her. When he finally finished—when the air stilled and the echo of his past hung there like the last note of a song—Delilah sat quietly for another beat. Then, gently, she set her utensils down, pushed her plate back, and leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table.

"You probably did fuck up," she said softly, without cruelty. "Most people do. At least once." She didn't smile. She didn't sugarcoat it. But there was no sharpness in her tone—only understanding. A steady kind of truthfulness that came from living her own kind of regret. "But that's life, right? It's messy. And confusing. And we make choices because we're scared or we think we're supposed to, and then we spend the next ten years wondering what the hell we were so afraid of." Her eyes dropped for a moment, and she exhaled, slow and deliberate.

"I get it," she added, lifting her gaze to him again. "The guarding. The armor. Not letting people see the version of you that isn't all buttoned-up and filtered. I've lived most of my life behind a curtain too. People think it's easier that way. Safer. But it's also lonelier than most will ever admit out loud." She took a pause, like she was debating whether to say the next part. But something in his openness had given her permission, so she let the words come. "You'll find someone who sees you," she said, her voice softening. "The unpolished version. The one you think might scare people away. And if that's what you want—if you really want that—then someone will stay. Not out of obligation. Not because they see some version of success. But because they see you. And it's enough."

A quiet stretched between them again. Not heavy. Just full. She reached for her wine at last, lifting it gently, but she didn't drink yet. Instead, she looked at him over the rim of the glass, her eyes still warm, still fixed on him.
"Thank you," she said finally. "For telling me that. For trusting me with it." Then she smiled—not the sultry, practiced one from Velour, not the deflective grin she used when people got too close—but something softer. Real.
Delilah was slowly being shown the real Adrian and he was surprising her each time. He wasn’t the stereotypical type of man that she thought he was, everyone judges in some type of way. She was starting to realize she was wrong.

There’s no secret motive her. He seems still stuck on his ex. This was definitely not about sex or even trying to look at me. He’s not like the others. She thought and decided never think of Adrian like that again. And finally, she took a sip—slow and thoughtful, the wine warming her tongue as she let his story settle deeper inside her.

“Sorry for accusing you of having some sort of secret motive for helping me. I feel a bit silly now for thinking that it was sex or something like that.” Delilah set her wine glass down and sighed softly. “Would you like to ask me anything?” She was offering him a chance to open the door just a bit more.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian's smile lingered with the faintest trace of warmth - an expression shaded with appreciation, maybe even a quiet kind of reverence. There was something in Delilah's words, in the way she delivered her feedback, that struck deeper than surface-level praise or critique. It wasn't just honesty. It was precision. Care. A reflection back at him that didn't distort, didn't flatter, didn't indulge. She had told him the truth, plainly and with just enough gentleness that it could be heard without making him flinch. He appreciated that more than he could easily say. He had learned the hard way that very few people spoke to him without motive, without calculation. Delilah did.

"Thank you for confirming that I did fuck up," he said with a wry smile that carried a sliver of humour, a tease that softened the sting of truth. "I hope I do find her. But that has proven difficult, given the life I have built. It is hard to see if someone truly sees me, or if it is a ploy for access, for financial support."

There it was - laid out simply. The paradox of success. Wealth, status, and influence had become armour, but also a mask. People saw the mask first, often only the mask. They crafted personas to reflect what they assumed he wanted - mirrors rather than windows. It had been years since he'd met someone who looked at him and saw. Years since he felt unguarded in conversation, or even truly curious about someone in return.

What he didn't say, what he wouldn't say. was that Delilah was the exception. She was the rare presence that caused something in him to shift. And it wasn't just attraction, though God, there was that too. Something raw and physical pulsed beneath the surface when he was near her. A tension he kept in check with the practiced restraint of a man who had spent his adult life navigating desire layered with risk. But it was more than that. She fascinated him.

Delilah didn't walk into a room and seek attention - she commanded it without trying. There was clarity in her, a kind of self-possession that he admired. Not bravado. Not performance. Just rootedness. And it made him feel, if only for fleeting moments, that he could step into himself again. That maybe, if he was seen through her eyes, there was something worth seeing.

Still, the reasons why he should look away from her were painfully clear. She was younger - fifteen years, give or take - and that gap wasn't just a number. It was a life stage, a cultural shift, a difference in the weight each of them carried. She was still building, still becoming. He had already built his kingdom and lived with the sacrifices it demanded. Their orbits shouldn't have overlapped. And yet.

He also feared being a disruption to her. A detour. Someone who offered intensity but also complexity. He didn't want to be the man who clipped her wings, who got in the way of her path. And he suspected- no, he knew - she wouldn't allow him to, even if he tried. Delilah was too focused, too determined. Her ambitions weren't showy, but they were fierce. She was going somewhere, and she didn't seem the type to make space for anything that didn't align with that direction.

Still, the idea of her haunted him. The way her mind worked. The weight of her silences. The poise. She could make him laugh, challenge him, steady him, and undo him, all without trying. He thought about the way she listened. Not just with her ears, but her whole presence. When she looked at you, it was like being scanned, seen down to the bone. It was disarming. And he wanted to be disarmed, at least by her.

She had invited him to ask her a question. That invitation had stayed with him, lingering in the back of his mind like a key waiting to be turned. He could've asked anything - something flirtatious, something light. But Adrian had never been good at shallow when he was genuinely intrigued. He wasn't interested in flirtation for the sake of it. Not with her. So he asked the thing he truly wanted to know.

"What is your biggest motivation? What fuels that fire, every day?"

He already had guesses, of course. He'd observed enough to know she wasn't moved by ego or vanity. She didn't crave applause. No, Delilah struck him as someone whose drive came from somewhere deeper, maybe darker. Pain, perhaps. Or survival. Or some quiet promise she'd once made to herself in the aftermath of something. He imagined her waking early, the world still half-asleep around her, and setting herself toward her day like a soldier heading into battle. Not because she had to prove anything to anyone else - but because she had standards she refused to lower, dreams she refused to shelve.

He found that kind of fire unbearably sexy. He found her unbearable, in the most complicated and compelling way. Adrian sat there for a moment, letting the silence settle in the wake of his question. He knew she would answer in her own time, in her own way, and when she did, it would be honest. That was the thing about Delilah - she never rushed to fill space, never cloaked her thoughts in performance. She let the weight of the moment do its work.

And so he waited, quietly, grateful to even be allowed close enough to ask.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah didn't flinch at the question. But she didn't rush either. She rarely did. Silence didn't scare her — it sharpened her. She leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and looked out past him for a moment, toward nothing in particular. It wasn't deflection. It was excavation. She was going somewhere inside herself, somewhere not many people got access to. Her voice, when it came, was low and measured — not dulled, but precise, like a blade honed for use.

"My mother," she said. "That's the root. The fire. The warning sign. And the fuel."

She let the name settle before continuing, and when she did, it wasn't rehearsed. This wasn't a story she told for effect. It was one she usually kept locked behind ribcage and reason. "She isn’t intentionally cruel. Just… gone. Checked out. Present in body, but the soul? Somewhere at the bottom of a bottle most nights. She'd come home late from a shift, reeking of smoke and gin, and either forget to speak to me or say something that cut deeper than she realized when I was little. Or maybe she did realize. I never figured that part out." Delilah's jaw tightened for a second — a flicker of muscle that gave her away before she smoothed it over again.

"There's a certain kind of grief that comes from mourning someone who's still alive. That was my childhood and still my adulthood. Every birthday, every school play, every scraped knee that needed tending — she was sometimes physically there, but never with me. And somewhere in that space, in that hollow where a mother should've been, I started building my spine. I built my own structure, brick by goddamn brick, because I had to."

Her gaze flicked back to Adrian, and for a moment, there was something like defiance in it — not at him, but at the idea that anyone might pity her. She didn't want pity. She wanted to be understood. "I watched what addiction did to her. What it cost her. Her light, her mind, her dignity. And I swore I would never — never — let something own me like that. So now I control what I can. My time. My space. My choices. Every single morning I wake up and I build. Even if it's just a fraction of a step forward. I build. Because I refuse to crumble."

There was no tremble in her voice, no cinematic gloss. Just steel layered over scar tissue. And underneath that: the heartbeat of someone who had learned to keep going because the alternative wasn't an option. Then, she shifted. Not in posture, but in tone — something gentler, quieter. She looked at Adrian with a clarity that made it impossible to look away. "And you," she said, her voice softening. "You sit here, afraid your life has made you too complicated to love. That your success has built walls so high no one can see past them. But here's the thing, Adrian…"
She leaned forward, eyes steady and calm.
"You're right — you are complicated. You're a man who's lost things. Who's paid a price for what he's built. And yeah, you wear that armor well. The suits. The guarded charm. The carefully rationed vulnerability. But underneath all that? There's a man who hasn't been really seen in years." She reached out then, not to touch him, but as if placing the weight of her words closer to him, into his space.

"Your past? That's the most human part of you. The most worthy. The pain, the failures, the parts that still sting — that's where the gold is. That's the version of you a real woman would want to wake up next to. Not because she's here for what you can give her, but because she sees who you are when you're stripped down to truth." She sat back again, drawing in a slow breath, like that truth cost her something to say — and it had. She didn't hand out reassurance like candy. She said what she meant, or she said nothing.
"You will find her. But only when you stop hiding the parts you think disqualify you. And when she comes, let her love the whole damn story — not just the polished chapter. Trust me, you and I are alike in a lot of ways. Easier said than done right?”

Delilah knew that she had great advice to offer but it wasn’t like she always listened to her own. Being vulnerable was risky, it was something that could cost her to lose it all and she wasn’t one to take risks when it came to her emotions. She did like these moments with Adrian but she still didn’t fully trust him enough to show him all of her.

“If I’m being honest I think she'll be lucky to know you. But only if you let her know the real you. Then you will be everything anyone woman can actually want. You’re already hot. Don’t have to worry about that. Just have to work on the inside.” She offered a kind smile before checking her cellphone for the time. She realized tomorrow was Friday. She didn’t have school and she didn’t have work. She didn’t need to rush home tonight and could possibly take a break from everything for the evening.

“Ok enough emotional talk for now.” She wanted to change the mood. “When was the last time you’ve done something fun, out of the norm, but just something that brought out genuine laughter and enjoyment?”