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?”

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian did not often smile. Not truly. The version that adorned his face for shareholders and journalists - sharp, rehearsed, flawlessly measured - was more a corporate emblem than a human expression. But now, as her question settled between them, a different kind of smile touched the corners of his mouth. It was slight, fleeting, unguarded. The kind of smile a man gives not to charm, but to acknowledge something honest. Perhaps it was the nature of the question. Or perhaps it was the woman asking it - so unexpected, so uncalculated, so maddeningly immune to the currency of performance on which his world depended.

"When was the last time you've done something fun, out of the norm, but just something that brought out genuine laughter and enjoyment?"

She had no idea what a dangerous question that was. Because buried beneath its lightness was the sort of excavation that men like him spent years constructing armour to avoid. He sat still for a moment, long enough to hear the quiet ticking of the watch beneath his cuff - a Patek, naturally, a gift to himself the day Wolfe Global crossed the ten-figure mark. It was a beautiful thing, handcrafted and ruthlessly precise. Much like him. Much like the life he had built with blistered ambition and the single-minded determination of a man who never wanted to feel small again. But beneath the steel casing of his expression, something loosened. Something remembered.

"There was a summer," he began, his voice low, his tone not softened so much as subdued. "Years ago. Barely out of school, living in a shoebox flat in Paris. I'd taken a job - temporary, unglamorous - just to stay another year." His eyes lifted, pale grey and distant, as if he were seeing that younger self across a fogged window of time. "I had nothing but a suitcase, a beat-up copy of Les Fleurs du mal, and this dream. That summer, I ended up at a street festival in Montmartre. The kind with spilled wine and bad music and people dancing like no one's pride was on the line. Someone pulled me into the chaos - I don't even remember who. I think she was drunk. Or maybe I was."

The memory curled around him now, half-formed and aching. "We danced. And not well. It was clumsy and stupid and completely without pretence. And at some point - I laughed. Not politely. Not as a reflex. I laughed until my ribs hurt. Until my body folded in on itself with the kind of joy that doesn't ask your permission before arriving."

He paused, not for effect, but because the silence was part of the truth. "It wasn't just the dancing," he continued. "It was the surrender. The freedom from curation. I wasn't Adrian Wolfe, Harvard wunderkind or future billionaire. I was just a guy in the street with wine on his shirt and music in his ears. That night, there was no leverage to maintain. No image to control. Just... presence."

He leaned back slightly, the soft creak of fine tailoring the only sound to follow him.

"Since then?" A faint huff of breath escaped him - not quite a laugh, not quite regret. "My life has been a long succession of beautifully ordered days. Controlled environments. Meticulously designed outcomes. I can tell you the forecast for the next quarter before the market sneezes, but I couldn't tell you the last time I laughed without a single part of me watching myself do it."

And that was the truth of it. To the world, Adrian was untouchable. Ice-veined. Impervious to failure, immune to want. The media painted him in absolutes: brilliant, aloof, unshakably in command. But that brilliance had its price. In building a kingdom fortified by strategy and solitude, he had starved something vital in himself. He had never been foolish enough to ask for joy. Joy was not a strategic asset. It could not be forecasted or acquired. It came when you weren't looking, and it left no matter how tightly you tried to hold it.

"I suppose I stopped making space for joy a long time ago," he admitted. "Because joy is unpredictable. And when you've spent your entire life making sure the unpredictable doesn't destroy you… well, it's hard to invite it back in."

The quiet that followed was not empty. It was reverent. And in that stillness, something unspoken shifted. He didn't add the rest of what pressed at the edge of his thoughts - that maybe her question had made him feel more than he'd intended. That maybe she wasn't just another passing presence, another name that would fade into the long, luxurious blur of temporary lovers and public smiles. Maybe she was dangerous. Not because she wanted to crack open the man he had so carefully built—but because she didn't need to.

And for the first time in years, he didn't feel entirely in control of the conversation. He felt alive within it. Vulnerable, in the smallest way. And that, he realized, might just be the beginning of everything.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah smiled. Not the polite kind reserved for clients or professors or strangers in a crowded elevator—but a real one. It bloomed slow and soft across her face, pulling at her lips, reaching all the way to her eyes. It was the kind of smile that made you forget how tired you were, how heavy the world could feel. The kind of smile that said, I see you, even when no words were spoken.

His story had stirred something in her. She could see him there—young, less guarded, wine-stained and laughing in the streets of Montmartre—and it touched a part of her that hadn't stirred in too long. A part buried beneath deadlines, tuition payments, shift schedules, and the endless churn of responsibility. She leaned back in her chair, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, the smile still soft on her lips. "You know," she said, her voice light but thick with something deeper, "I don't even remember the last time I laughed like that either."

She looked down for a moment, not out of shyness but out of honesty—like the truth was resting on her tongue and needed a second before being released. Then her gaze lifted to meet his again, open and steady. "My life's been a machine for as long as I can remember. School. Work. More school. More work. I keep telling myself it's for a better future—and it is—but damn, it's exhausting. Some nights I come home and I just… sit there. Not because I want to, but because I can't move. I'm so tired.”

Her voice didn't break, because Delilah didn't break. She was steel wrapped in velvet—strong, resilient, and endlessly enduring. But beneath the strength was a woman who craved more than just survival. A woman who hadn't been held for the sake of comfort, who hadn't felt lightness, in far too long. "I think I forgot how to have fun somewhere along the way," she said, laughing a little, shaking her head. "Isn't that wild? I'm twenty-three and I've already forgotten how to play." A genuine chuckle left her lips. “I’m sure if I’m put into the right environment I’ll remember though.” She paused, looking Adrian over as few crazy ideas popped into her head. “Hmm…” she leaned back in her seat as she looked at him. The crazy the ideas got the more she smiled. After a few seconds leaned in a little, lowering her voice like they were co-conspirators about to hatch a plan.

"You and I—we need to do something. Not fancy, not curated, not for social media or anyone else. Just fun. Off-script. No boardrooms. No to-do lists. Just life." She smiled again, brighter now. "This Friday, there's this night market across the river—music, food trucks, fire dancers, people selling weird little handmade things under fairy lights. No expectations, no itinerary. Just chaos and color and sound. Don’t think about it. Don’t second guess you’re going.”

She didn't ask.

She didn't invite.

She declared.

"I'm going to eat too much, buy something I don't need, and watch people dance like an idiot because I will be too uncomfortable to dance myself. I can people watch. And you…" she let her gaze settle on him, steady and certain, "…you're coming with me." Here she was being honest, she was being herself and she wanted to get back at him for when he invited her to dinner the other week. He didn’t give her an opportunity to say yes or no. This time it was her turn. There wasn't arrogance though. It was clarity. A choice already made.

Her smile softened, but her tone didn't waver.
"So make sure you wear shoes you can actually move in, Mr. Wolfe. And don't bother trying to talk your way out of it. I won't listen." She stood, slowly, sliding her bag over her shoulder. She took a step closer to him. “Stand up and give me a hug goodbye.” She said. Her chocolate eyes were round and rich in color. Her blushed cheeks added to the innocent look on her face. She was giving him a little bit of herself, she wanted to see what exactly he would do with it.

"Friday," she repeated, flashing one last look at him. "Don't be late."

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian almost couldn't believe the words that had just left Delilah's mouth. It wasn't the content of what she said - an invitation, a proposal, a suggestion, whatever label he might try to assign it - but the manner in which it was delivered. She hadn't asked. She hadn't cajoled or flirted or appealed to his calendar, his sense of obligation, or his latent guilt. She'd simply told him. A statement of fact, wrapped in calm assurance. She didn't doubted he'd say yes. She simply knew he would.

And that was the part that left his composure just slightly skewed. No one did that with him. Not professionally, not personally. People didn't tell Adrian what to do - they made cases, they negotiated, they made pitches like suitors before a throne. Even his closest friends tended to frame their opinions as gentle queries, mindful of the balance of power he carried in every room like an invisible sceptre. But Delilah simply was. She moved through conversation like it bent to her rhythm, and he had to admit, the effect was disarming.

A night market. That was her suggestion - no, her instruction. He could still hear the quiet certainty with which she'd said it. And oddly enough, it sounded like the most honest thing he'd been offered in weeks. Certainly more appealing than the recycled carousel of Friday night engagements that usually filled his calendar: high-gloss mixers packed with the same algorithm-chosen faces, cocktail clinks and content creation masquerading as intimacy. Networking events disguised as spontaneity, with nothing of the unexpected save perhaps the name on the cocktail menu.

But a night market? That was texture. That was something unpredictable, tactile, human. A little unruly. Handmade things, scents in the air that couldn't be bottled and branded, moments that couldn't be captured in portrait mode and tagged to an audience. He hadn't done something like that in years. It sounded like it might leave a mark - small, invisible, but real.

When he stood to hug her, it was purely at her prompting. He wouldn't have initiated it. That wasn't how he operated. But she'd asked - no, she'd instructed, again - and there was no real room for refusal, though not because of pressure. It was stranger than that. The gravity of her presence felt… familiar. Like some instinct he'd forgotten he had responded to her presence before he could mount any resistance. The hug itself was brief, but it lingered in his nerves longer than he wanted to admit. When their bodies met, something in him stirred - not arousal exactly, though that too was there, undeniably - but something more primal, more complicated. A deep, submerged recognition, like hearing a note from a song you used to love but haven't listened to in years, and realizing you still remember every word. It hit somewhere far beneath the surface of his curated detachment.

When he answered, "Friday," it came out quietly, more like a vow than a confirmation. She hadn't waited for it; she didn't need to. But he said it anyway, like his voice needed to catch up to the decision his body had already made. It didn't feel like committing to an appointment. It felt like stepping into something. He watched her go, her departure as casual as her invitation. No looking back, no coy glances or final words meant to linger. Just a quiet exit, like she hadn't just rerouted something fundamental in him. He gathered his things in silence, feeling slightly unmoored, like someone waking from a vivid dream unsure which part of reality had shifted.

Later, in the privacy of his car, the detachment he usually wore so well had fully abandoned him. He didn't turn on music or a podcast to fill the space. He didn't call anyone. The quiet wasn't oppressive for once - it was necessary, a space in which the echo of that encounter could unfold. His mind spun not with anxiety but with a restless curiosity. What exactly had he committed to?

It wasn't just a Friday night at a market. He knew that. Delilah hadn't offered him a plan, she'd offered him an opening. To what, he didn't yet know. But he could feel the shift in his body, the pulse of something raw. She had cracked open a door to a part of himself he'd shuttered long ago—too inconvenient, too sensitive, too difficult to control. The part of him that didn't need a curated experience, didn't crave approval, didn't posture. There was a version of himself he'd long ago chosen to silence - the one that craved meaning more than optics, truth more than triumph, touch more than conquest. The one who wanted to be known not for his name or accolades, but in that rare, unspoken language people sometimes remember only in each other's presence.

Delilah hadn't said any of this. She hadn't needed to. The invitation had been enough. And now, all he could do was wait for Friday - wondering not what would happen, but who he might become in her company.​

 

[Kita-san]

The door to the restaurant swung shut behind her with a soft chime, but Delilah didn't look back. She didn't have to. That conversation, that moment—it was already folded up inside her like a letter she'd read a dozen times.

She stepped into the warm hush of the evening, the sky tinted amber with the fading light, and walked without hurry. Her heels clicked against the sidewalk, but her thoughts were louder than anything around her. Her skin still held the memory of him—the hug she had to ask for, sure, but one he hadn't denied. He never would have offered, not first. That wasn't Adrian. She already knew that much. But when their bodies touched, when his arms closed around her in that fleeting embrace, something had passed between them. Not chemistry, exactly even though she could feel a little pull there. She did her best not to focus on it. Not tension but recognition.

That thought stirred in her chest like a secret. She smiled to herself, faint and unguarded, before catching it and smoothing it away. But the smile returned when she thought about how he'd said "Friday." Not in the way people say yes to plans they're already preparing to cancel. No, he'd said it like he'd meant it. Like it meant something. That alone had changed the shape of her night. She could still feel it in the air around her. That shift. It wasn't dramatic, but it was real—the quiet kind of gravity you only notice when you're already caught in its pull. And she didn't mind it. Not at all.

By the time she reached her house, the streetlights had flickered on. The neighborhood was quiet. Too quiet. Her key turned in the lock. The door creaked open into stillness. No music. No TV. No smell of reheated leftovers or cheap wine. Just the thrum of the refrigerator and the echo of her own footsteps. "Mom?" she called, knowing better. No answer. She checked the kitchen—empty. Living room—clean, too clean. Her mother's purse was gone. No note. No attempt at decency or illusion. Just… gone. Out again. Drinking. Maybe worse.

Delilah leaned against the counter and exhaled slowly. Not annoyed. Not surprised. Just tired in the kind of way that never really rested, no matter how long you closed your eyes. She took a moment, then headed for the shower. Inside the small tiled room, under the steady pulse of water, her thoughts wandered again. Back to Adrian.

He said yes pretty quickly.

He wasn't the type to bend easily. She could tell. Everything about him was designed to be unbothered, unreadable. But he had said yes. Maybe not to her, not exactly, but to something she represented. Something he remembered, even if he didn't know why.
She tilted her head back under the spray, letting the water hit her face and blur the noise of her mind.

Maybe the hug was too much?

Delilah didn't know what Friday would become. But she knew it wouldn't be just a night out. It was something else. A door. A line. A promise they hadn't made with words. And standing alone in the steam and silence, she realized she was ready for whatever that meant. Even if it was a little dangerous. Especially if it was.

The days passed like slow-moving shadows—heavy with heat, and somehow both too quiet and too loud all at once. The house remained mostly still, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the hum of traffic outside the cracked-open window. Her mother didn't come home. Not really. A text had come through late Tuesday evening:

"Don't wait up. Love you."

Delilah didn't reply right away. What was there to say? Be safe? Come home? I miss you? It would all go unread, ignored, forgotten by the time another glass hit the bar. She curled deeper into the worn couch, textbook open but ignored, her laptop glowing beside her. She'd already submitted her cooking assignment. It was quite stressful for her to cook in front of her teacher but she was proud of what she made. It came out perfect and she was hoping that her teacher thought the same. And now she waited. The email with her grading results could come at any moment. Or not for another day. Or two. The waiting was worse than the actual cooking. She stared at her inbox for far too long before snapping the laptop shut.

Adrian.

He'd been quiet, too. But that didn't feel wrong. She hadn't reached out to him, —not because she didn't want to, but because this felt like one of those rare moments that needed space. Air. She wasn't going to chase him, and whatever they were building between them wasn't the kind of thing you pushed. Still, her thoughts kept circling back to him. She sighed and headed to bed.

Wednesday:

No grade.

She worked a double shift at Velour. Luckily she was just a bar tender. She didn’t have the will to be a bottle girl tonight. She worked hard, taking any tips she could get. She kept telling herself she needed to endure this to make to the bigger picture. Somehow her mother always knew when she was at Velour. She always wanted her to bring her back an expensive bottle of alcohol but Delilah refused. She ignored two calls from her mom.

Thursday:

Still no grade.

She hovered over the "compose" button to message Adrian. Just something light—You still good for tomorrow?—but she deleted it twice before giving up. If he wanted to back out, he would. If he didn't, he'd show up. She found some quiet peace in that certainty. She made herself a plate of rice and sautéed greens with garlic and chili flakes, and tried not to second-guess every bite. She was her biggest critic but some how she ended up relaxing on the couch, waiting for her test results to come in.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

From his so-called "dinner" with Delilah on Sunday night to the late drag of Friday afternoon, the week unravelled for Adrian with agonizing slowness. Time, usually a thing he sliced through like silk, had begun to resist him. He sat in boardrooms with his usual composure, surrounded by analysts, vice presidents, and the polished weight of Wolfe Global Holdings, but some internal tether pulled at him, taut and fraying. A night market. He'd said yes. Of all things, he'd agreed to a night market.

One word: Delilah.

He didn't understand the pull she had on him, not in any way that made sense. There was no strategy to it, no transactional logic. It was the opposite of leverage. The opposite of control. And yet, here he was - half-conscious all week, waiting for Friday like a man in exile waiting for a message that would never come.

Monday was merciless. Meetings from dawn to dusk - contracts, capital calls, an emergency acquisition pitch that should've been beneath his level but required his name to close. He boxed at five that morning, each jab punishing, exacting. Sweat soaked his core, every strike an attempt to expel something he didn't have the language for. He thought about Delilah mid-rep, unbidden. The way she had looked at him - not with admiration, not even with challenge, but with that strange, disarming calm. She wasn't impressed, and he didn't know what to do with that.

Tuesday opened with a helicopter flight to oversee a new waterfront property. Billion-dollar view, cathedral ceilings, and he barely registered any of it. His suit was navy linen; the heat didn't touch him. The executives under him smiled too much. Their compliments were laced with performance. He nodded through the day, returned home late, and swam laps in silence. Forty-five minutes, uninterrupted. He didn't play music. He didn't need it. The water dulled everything. Still, when he closed his eyes that night, he imagined Delilah somewhere far from this.

Wednesday was profit reports and IPO preparation. His phone buzzed with curated admiration: influencers wanting access, journalists fishing for quotes, a European duchess inquiring if he would attend her birthday in Milan. He replied to none. His assistant, used to this rhythm, filtered the noise. He declined the duchess. That evening, he walked the treadmill on an incline for an hour, his eyes fixed on the wall. Delilah again. It irritated him, the way her voice lingered, the memory of her hair. She wasn't his type. He didn't have types anymore. He had vetting systems, background checks, NDAs. But her? She simply existed in his mind, unapologetic and feral, like a song he didn't choose but couldn't stop humming.

Thursday ended in Paris via red-eye - eight hours in the city for a green tech summit, which he anchored with his usual precision. Reporters gushed. Investors fawned. He wore charcoal wool, spoke fluent French, and gave nothing away. But even in the city he once adored, everything felt peripheral. He passed galleries he used to haunt in his twenties and saw none of the melancholy pieces he used to collect. He thought, strangely, of writing again. Of recording the chaos in his head. He returned home in silence, sat with a drink he didn't touch, and opened his journal. He didn't write. Just stared. And wondered what the hell Delilah would wear to a night market.

Finally, Friday. The office was perfunctory. His presence was ceremonial. His team delivered the numbers. His legal counsel asked for sign-off. But Adrian was already gone in the ways that mattered. He left by mid-afternoon. No one questioned it. No one dared.

At home, he moved with slow deliberation. He chose comfort, but nothing careless: a black crew-neck cashmere sweater, cut perfectly to his frame, and dark tailored jeans that moved like a second skin. A sleek silver watch, minimalist. Black leather sneakers with white soles - low profile, Italian made, supple as gloves. He didn't wear cologne; his skin carried the memory of vetiver soap and ozone from the rain that had passed earlier. He looked in the mirror and saw himself, as always - controlled, unreadable. But there was something unfamiliar in his own eyes: anticipation.

The market was already alive when he arrived. A pocket of the city he rarely acknowledged had transformed into something ungovernable - lanterns strung overhead like faded constellations, the air thick with the scent of grilled meat, spices, and something sweet he couldn't place. Music spilled from a distant speaker, and laughter curled around every corner. He stood still for a moment, absorbing the churn of bodies and light, a world that did not revolve around acquisition or ownership or even understanding.

He didn't belong here. And yet, he had come. For her. He stood near the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, eyes scanning. People brushed past him, oblivious. He let them. He liked the anonymity of it. No one here asked for anything. No one whispered his name. He was just a man waiting.

Waiting for Delilah. And not for a contract. Not for sex, not even for power.

Just... her.​

 

[Kita-san]

She sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on knees, staring down at her bare legs, trying to convince herself that this wasn't a big deal.
But her heart—traitorous and loud—refused to play along. It was a big deal. The market itself was a big deal but so was being there with him. She hadn't done anything like this in a long time. Not since high school, really. Not since before the weight of her mother's mistakes became hers to carry.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Not Adrian. Just a junk promo.

She didn't have friends—not real ones. Not anymore. Not since people realized her life wasn't convenient. That she couldn't drop everything for a party or answer texts right away. That sometimes she showed up to school exhausted, smelling faintly of whiskey that wasn't hers. That her clothes weren't always the newest. That she didn't have rides to the beach or sleepovers or extra money for brunch. At some point, they all left. And she let them. She had decided then that she didn't need people. And maybe she still believed that, deep down. Maybe she still wore her independence like armor. But something about Adrian—his quiet restraint, the way he watched her like he was reading a story only he could see—it made her want to be known again.

She stood and walked to the mirror, smoothing down her black jean shorts. They hugged her hips without apology, frayed just slightly at the hem, like her. She pulled on a loose grey-black cropped T-shirt—soft cotton, almost sheer in the light. It fell off one shoulder just enough to hint at skin without screaming for attention. She had an athletic build—strong legs from working out, she could also thank double shifts on her feet, toned arms from lifting crates and groceries and years of too-much responsibility. Her stomach was soft but defined, curves shaped by labor, not luxury. Her long, curly hair framed her face like a wild halo, spirals falling down her back with a mind of their own. She left it loose, let it be her. No flat iron, no pretending. Just truth.

Her chocolate brown eyes were her favorite thing about her face. Warm, deep, resilient. She touched on mascara, a sweep of eyeliner, a hint of shimmer on her cheeks—nothing heavy. Just enough to match how she wanted to feel: seen, but not hiding behind it. She stared at herself a moment longer. She didn’t understand why she tried to look nice, none of that should matter. It never matters. Her looks have nothing to do with her future goals but then again she was a 23 year old girl who did like makeup and wanted cute clothes and to go on dates but all of that was wishful thinking. The young girl grabbed her small purse and left the house.

The city lights flickered above her as she stepped out into the night. Her walk to the market was steady, but every step buzzed with nerves. People moved past her in every direction, couples laughing, groups pressed close together. She kept to herself. Familiar habit. But her eyes scanned the crowd anyway—looking for a tall, still figure who always seemed like he belonged to another world. And then—there he was. Standing near the entrance like he'd been waiting for hours, but not impatiently. Calm. Composed. A pillar in the swirl of color and noise. The cashmere sweater hugged his frame like it had been designed just for him. His jeans moved with grace, casual but precise. He hadn't dressed to impress. He had dressed like himself. Like someone who didn't need to prove anything.

Their eyes met.

And for a second, the market disappeared. Delilah's breath caught—not because he looked good (he did), but because in that moment, the guardedness she usually wore like second skin… loosened. She smiled—small, real and walked toward him. “You made it.” She said simply. “I’m a bit surprised.” She looked up at Adrian. “But I’m glad you came. I really didn’t want to come to this thing alone.” She felt like he would understand her reasons why.

“Did you have a long day? Mine was pretty simply. Just worked on some homework. My mom had been gone for a few days so my house is quiet. I haven’t gotten my test results back yet. Maybe Monday. I’m sure I passed.” There confidence in her voice when she spoke about passing. She did exactly what she had wanted to and executed the dish perfectly. She wouldn’t have changed a thing.

More people began to arrive and as she stood with Adrian a few high school rode by on their bikes causing people to jump out of their way as they rode by. Someone accidentally bumped into Delilah which caused her to move even closer to Adrian. She stood in front of him, only mere inches from their bodies touching. She didn’t step back though, she didn’t think anything was wrong.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian saw her from a distance. That unassuming edge-of-sight moment - before a body becomes a person again, before memory rushes to match outline with name - lingered just long enough for him to marvel at her. Real. That was the word that came to him. Real - not filtered or posed, not distilled into the version most people cultivated when they knew they were being seen. She had no need of gloss. It was as though her presence arrived unmediated, uncrafted. She was simply there, radiant in the way heat shimmers off the pavement: impossible to touch, but insistent on being felt.

The casual defiance of her outfit only underscored it. Black jean shorts, frayed at the hem and slung low on her hips, paired with a grey-black cropped T-shirt that hung in soft, deliberate negligence across her torso. No statement pieces, no affectations. But she wore the clothes like she'd woken into them from a dream and never thought twice. The looseness of it all wasn't laziness - it was a kind of unstudied composure. A quiet challenge to the world to see her exactly as she was.

"A promise is a promise. I never break promises. I just rarely make them."

The words had landed like a spark landing on dry leaves. Not because of what they meant, not exactly. But because of how they felt: unyielding, unsentimental. Not cold, but cool - like a truth you didn't want to admit. It wasn't just a mantra. It was a warning, maybe even a boundary. She was a woman who did not offer herself carelessly. That promise, rare as it was, meant more than comfort or convenience. It meant blood, if it had to. And now she stood here, or rather, had stood - her body a memory still etched behind his eyelids - so casual and yet so clearly curated by something instinctual. As if gravity was subtly adjusted around her, and the air bent itself to make space for her presence.

When she asked about his day, she did it like someone who genuinely wanted the answer - not as an entry point to talk about her own, not out of obligation or etiquette, but because she listened. That difference had struck him immediately. It unbalanced him, if only slightly, and in the space of that shift he found himself responding more truthfully than he usually did.

"Just long," he had said, allowing the words to stretch like limbs in sunlight. "Like it was deliberately keeping me from tonight."

He let a smile break across his face then, unforced. It wasn't practiced or ironic; it belonged to the moment. There was something delicious about giving her that compliment and letting it hang there between them, unqualified. He didn't need to clarify. She'd know what he meant. And so, he added: "I'm sure you aced that test. If that pasta dish is anything to go by, A+ from me."

There was no need to pretend it was casual flattery. It wasn't. He'd meant it. There was a precision to how she moved through the world - she didn't chase attention, but it caught her anyway. And it wasn't just the cooking or the way she spoke. It was her refusal to posture. She didn't perform intelligence or kindness or sex. She just was those things, and if you couldn't see it, she wasn't going to slow down and wait for you to catch up.

When the crowd shifted and she was bumped closer to him - accidentally, unintentionally, inevitably - he didn't pull away. He didn't tense or retreat or perform politeness. His body didn't jolt from the contact. He simply remained where he was, like something within him had already anticipated the gravity of her drawing near. His eyes didn't stray. They stayed locked on hers, clear and focused, as if everything peripheral had gone mute and meaningless. He could feel the electricity then -not lust exactly, but something far more dangerous. Something slower, more enduring. The thrum of recognition that precedes desire. Like the warmth before a fever. And there was no question of who was in control. Not her. Not him. Just this atmosphere they now inhabited, crafted wordlessly between them.

"So—this was your invite," he said at last, voice low and grounded, trying not to press too much meaning into the moment even as it pressed against him. "Lead the way."

It was the only thing he could offer her that didn't try to shape her into something else. No directions. No expectations. Just presence. Just trust. The act of stepping into her world and letting her define its parameters. Not submission, but a willing surrender of pretense. A quiet admission that her pace was the one he wanted to follow.

He wasn't looking to possess her. He wasn't trying to impress her, either. He had no interest in measuring himself against her or making a case for himself. There was something sacred in the simplicity of wanting her near - and letting that be enough. In her orbit, nothing needed translation. Every word said could hold its weight. Every silence, too. And in that silence now, he waited—not because he was lost, but because she was the kind of woman worth waiting with. Not for. And if she turned, if she walked ahead, if she smiled in that way that undid him - he would follow. Quietly, earnestly. The world could reshape itself around her. He'd be ready.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah turned slightly at his words, a flick of dark hair brushing against her cheek in the golden spill of market lights. She didn't smile in the way some people did—bright and overly sweet—but there was a knowing curve to her lips, subtle and precise, like a secret only she understood. Her eyes, dark and steady, locked onto his for a heartbeat too long to be accidental. Then, with a quiet breath, she nodded once.

"Then keep up." And just like that, she turned and led the way.

The night market unfolded ahead of them like a living canvas, spilling color and scent and sound in all directions. Warm light glowed from paper lanterns strung between vendor stalls, casting soft halos over the crowd. Every footstep fell on weathered stone or uneven pavement, the air dense with the smell of spices and fried dough, charcoal smoke curling in lazy ribbons toward the open sky. Voices blended into a low, steady hum—vendors calling out in half-sung pitches, laughter tucked into the corners of conversation, the occasional clink of metal on ceramic. Delilah walked with a quiet command, not arrogant, not rushed—just certain. The crowd parted just enough to let her pass, as if some invisible thread drew the world aside for her. Her hand brushed briefly against a hanging string of copper bells at one stall, the soft chime whispering in their wake. She didn't bother looking back to see if he was still following. She didn't have to. She moved like someone who knew where she was going, even if she hadn't been here in years.

They passed stalls packed with handmade leather goods, woven scarves dyed in deep indigos and saffron golds, piles of dried tea leaves scooped into paper cones. She stopped occasionally, not to linger, but to look—to see. And when they reached a stall displaying handcrafted jewelry. Her fingers hovered above a tray of rings and pendants, each piece seemingly humming with its own quiet magic. These weren't costume baubles or factory-perfect trinkets. They were crafted. Real silver, burnished and imperfect. Chains that twisted like vines. Earrings shaped like falling leaves, thin as breath. Small stones glinted beneath the lights: pale moonstone that caught rainbows in its depths, milky opals that glowed like fire held beneath water, tiny pieces of raw quartz wrapped in delicate copper. There were garnets like drops of blood and soft blue chalcedony the color of mist over ocean.

She leaned down slightly, eyes catching on a necklace—a slender gold chain anchored by a tear-shaped opal, its colors blooming softly beneath the surface like a secret that refused to settle. "How pretty," she murmured more to herself than to Adrian, fingers brushing the air just above it. "Looks like it's holding a storm." This is why she loved opals. She then turned a ring next, its band twisted into a subtle vine pattern, crowned with a single oval stone—pink tourmaline, soft and luminous. Her touch was careful, almost reverent, but there was no hesitation in it. She didn't handle the jewelry like something precious. She handled it like something meaningful. She placed the ring on one of her fingers and smiled softly. She could appreciate the work that the person put into all of this jewelry. Her nails were short, clean, unpolished, her hands sure and steady. She didn't buy the ring. She set it down gently, like it was something that deserved to be honored, even if not owned.

“Let’s check out the food stalls.” She looked at Adrian before walking off into the proper direction. The smell of grilled meats drifted toward them next, carried on a soft breeze. Sizzling skewers glistened with honey glaze, and paper trays overflowed with fried dumplings and bright pickled vegetables. Without asking, Delilah veered left toward a food stall, waving off the vendor's eager pitch with a small shake of her head—not yet. She pointed instead at something on the grill, a folded flatbread blistered with char and oozing cheese and spiced lamb.

"That one," she said to Adrian, already reaching for her wallet. "I hope you're hungry. You don't come to places like this and order salad." She passed him a piece without ceremony, steam rising in soft curls from the torn edge of the bread. Her hands brushed his again—just barely, just enough to be felt. She didn't pull away. "What do you think?” she asked, eyes lifting to meet his again. "You can try it with chili oil. I’m sure it’ll taste even better.” She smiled. There was no need for performance here. Delilah didn't craft charm, didn't adjust to fit any space but her own. She simply occupied it. With clarity. With calm. With that rare kind of strength that didn't need to be loud to be unshakable.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian followed Delilah with a quiet, deliberate rhythm, the kind of pace reserved for moments steeped in thought or reverence. There were no words between them - not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence was a language of its own. The night market unfolded around them like a scene from another life: vibrant, chaotic, fragrant, alive with the pulse of the city. Neon lights buzzed and flickered overhead, mingling with the golden glow of hanging bulbs strung across makeshift awnings. Music spilled from Bluetooth speakers and mouth organs alike. Laughter echoed. Somewhere nearby, a bell chimed in the breeze.

He traced her steps with just enough space between them to remain respectful of her autonomy - close enough not to lose her in the milling crowd, but far enough to not presume anything unspoken. The chemistry simmered between them, still in its infancy, still searching for its boundaries. It wasn't lust that drove him forward, at least not entirely. It was fascination. And something deeper he wasn't quite ready to name.

She moved with purpose - an ease that seemed entirely her own, one that cut through the riot of motion and noise. When she slowed at a jewellery stall tucked under a burgundy canopy, Adrian noted the change instantly. Her attention shifted toward a necklace and ring set, both understated but undeniably elegant. A slender chain, glinting with a single green stone—maybe emerald or tourmaline. The ring, a twisted silver band, subtly detailed. He stayed a few steps behind, watching the way her eyes brightened as she studied the pieces. There was no attempt to feign disinterest or conceal desire. She liked them - maybe even loved them - but didn't reach for her purse. He knew enough of her situation to understand why. Delilah was getting by, that much was clear. Not thriving, perhaps, but not drowning either. Just treading the surface, chin lifted against the weight of it all. He memorised the shape of her gaze, the way it lingered, the subtle curl of her fingers as she examined the ring on her hand. He didn't need to write anything down. Some details etched themselves into the mind like carvings in stone.

The next stop was the food section - less a stall and more a chaotic sprawl of sensory overload. Smoke from open grills spiralled upwards into the humid air. Lanterns swayed, casting flickers of light across stalls that boasted everything from skewered meat to deep-fried confections dusted with powdered sugar. The smells collided violently - cardamom and garlic, grilled fish and caramelised onions, fresh coriander, roasting peanuts, something sticky and sweet buried under it all.

Delilah seemed to navigate it effortlessly. She wove through the stalls with a strange kind of grace, not hurried but not uncertain either. She stopped at one - a modest cart operated by a stoic-looking man with burn-scarred arms and a cast-iron griddle the size of a steering wheel. The offering: a folded flatbread blistered with golden char, oozing warm cheese and spiced lamb, steam rising from its belly like incense. She pointed to it, and Adrian nodded. It looked incredible. She broke off a corner and offered it to him, and for a fleeting moment their fingers touched - just a graze. Enough to stir something low in his belly, a heat that had nothing to do with the food or the summer night. He accepted the bite and brought it to his lips. As soon as the flavours hit - salty cheese, earthy lamb, a sudden brightness of lemon or sumac - his eyes fluttered shut. The combination was daring and bold, unapologetically rich, the kind of food that demanded to be eaten with both hands and without inhibition. He opened his eyes and met hers briefly. It wasn't just good. It was unforgettable.

Then it was his turn. Then Adrian spotted it—half by accident, half by instinct. A break in the shifting crowd offered him a fleeting glimpse: a flickering string of red paper lanterns above a narrow stall, their waxy glow catching on clouds of steam that curled upward in ghostly ribbons. The smell reached him before the sight fully did - deep, savory, and intoxicating. Fermented soy, charred scallions, a hint of something sweet and peppered sharp. It pulled at something buried in him. Not memory exactly, but hunger with a kind of yearning. He pivoted, not abruptly, but with a quiet certainty that surprised even him. For a moment, he worried she wouldn't follow, that perhaps he'd broken the fragile choreography they'd been moving within since they'd first slipped into the market. But then he heard the soft fall of her steps behind him, unspoken agreement carried forward on the shared current between them.

The stall was wedged between a skewered seafood vendor and a seller of bright, syrupy pastries. It was smaller than most, with only a hand-painted sign bearing three Japanese characters he didn't recognise, and beneath it, in much smaller English: Osaka-style Okonomiyaki. The surface of the griddle was blackened with age and use, but the ingredients laid out were fresh and abundant - shredded cabbage in a metal bin, spring onions, fat slices of pork belly, tubs of batter, and a squirt bottle filled with dark, glossy okonomiyaki sauce. A young man manned the grill with the easy confidence of someone who knew every nuance of the dish he was building. His hands moved quickl - —pouring the thick batter in an imperfect circle, layering it with cabbage and meat, cracking an egg over the top, flipping the whole thing with a flourish of his wrist. The scent was almost maddening. There was an honesty to it, something both street-smart and homegrown. Food without ego.

Adrian didn't ask what it was. He simply ordered one, paying in crumpled notes while the sounds of sizzling and the rhythmic chop of green onions surrounded him. Delilah stood beside him now, close enough that their shoulders brushed every few seconds as the crowd jostled. He handed over the first plate to her - styrofoam heavy with the thick pancake, sauce lacquered across the top in a dark sweep, Japanese mayo drizzled in lazy stripes, bonito flakes writhing from the heat like something alive. He waited for his own, eyes flicking to her expression, half-curious to see if she shared his excitement - or if she was humoring him. He didn't mind either way. There was something gratifying about introducing someone to a new pleasure, even if it didn't land quite the same. But for him, this wasn't just food. It was an offering of sorts. A risk.

He took his plate when it came, letting the steam rise into his face, the wooden chopsticks trembling slightly between his fingers. He hadn't expected to find something like this here - hadn't known he'd been craving it. The outside of the okonomiyaki was crisp, the inside dense and tender, and the first bite was a riot of textures: the chew of cabbage, the richness of pork, the umami depth of sauce, the faint whisper of sea from the bonito flakes. He closed his eyes. Let it linger.

There was no explanation given. No story wrapped around the food. Just the quiet satisfaction of discovery - his own, and now, perhaps, hers.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah stood there, transfixed—not by the bustle around her, not by the smoke or the laughter or the brilliant spill of lantern light overhead—but by Adrian. There was something about the way he moved through the crowd now that had changed. Subtle, but noticeable. The edge in his shoulders had softened, his posture less guarded, less coiled. His steps, though still measured, no longer seemed like part of some internal defense mechanism. He was present now, immersed, letting the market swallow him as she had. And the way he found that okonomiyaki stall—it hadn't been a calculated detour. It was instinct. Hunger. Curiosity. She liked that about him. That he followed his gut without apology.

And then—he gave it to her first. The plate, warm and fragrant in her hands. She didn't thank him aloud. She didn't need to. Her eyes met his in a glance that said you didn't have to, but I'm glad you did. What excited her the most about the dish was the sauce and the pork belly. Such an inexpensive piece of meat that could easily heighten any dish. The delicious pork was one of Delilah’s favorites to work with. Soon Delilah took a bite.

The world blurred.

The textures collapsed against her tongue—soft, crisp, creamy, smoky. Her brows lifted, a slow smile unfurling at the corners of her lips, her eyes fluttering shut for just a second. She let out a hum, involuntary and low, like a secret escaping her throat. Not the loud kind of reaction, not the overdone gasp or the exaggerated moan—but something quieter. Deeper. As if the food hit a part of her that hadn't been fed in a long time. She didn't speak right away. She didn't want to speak. She wanted to feel. So she took another bite, and then another, her chopsticks clumsy but determined. A small bit of sauce grazed the corner of her mouth, and she licked it away without shame. There was nothing delicate in how she ate it—this wasn't a meal meant for grace. It was messy, hot, honest. Just like the air between them.


"You have no idea how much I love this," she finally said, the words breathless with laughter, with disbelief, with gratitude. “Nice choice. I’ve actually never had this before but I’m glad I got to try it." She took note of everything that was used to make the dish, she would remember the name. She wanted to look up the recipe and the background of the dish so she could recreate it at Jack’s restaurant one day.

Delilah had this glow to her when it came to food, the way she looked at him—bright-eyed, full of warmth—it said more than any thanks ever could. It felt like they'd cracked something open, the two of them, with chopsticks and sauce and steam. Delilah finished the last bite with a dramatic little sigh, then nudged him with her elbow, casual, playful. "Okay, now we need something to drink before I melt. That much goodness needs a cooldown."

She turned, and scanned the area around them. It was crowded but she could still see between the people that walked by. Delilah gave one last glance at Adrian before she began to walk. She led them toward a row of colorful signs half-obscured by curling streamers. "There's this juice place I've seen before—real stuff, not syrup and lies. Fresh mango, watermelon, passionfruit— you get the picture.” She said to him as she glanced back behind him.

She noticed how Adrian didn’t necessarily try to walk next to her or to close behind her. She didn’t necessarily understand his reasoning but she didn’t question it. She wanted him to be comfortable and not being close to her was what he wanted she accepted that. She trailed off when they reached the stall, a trio of plastic bins filled with crushed ice and rows of whole fruit stacked like a summer altar. A chalkboard listed the options in bright neon marker. But before she could place her order, she paused, turning back to him, her expression shifting from lighthearted to… thoughtful.

Delilah paused for a moment before turning to look at Adrain. "Wait," she said, biting her lower lip slightly. "Do you want juice, or would you rather, something stronger. They won’t have your favorite crafted cocktail here that you order at Velour but I’m sure there is some sort of alcohol here that will peak your interest.”

Her gaze searched his face—not teasing, not coy, just… curious. Open. Like she wanted to know who he was when the edges dropped. When the weight lifted. Whatever he chose, she'd follow. Because something was happening here—slow, quiet, real. And she didn't want to miss a second of it.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian watched her with a quiet attentiveness, the kind that slips past intention and settles somewhere more instinctual. There was something almost disarmingly effortless about the way Delilah navigated even the simplest of moments - eating pork belly with a plastic fork on a humid evening, the sheen of oil on the meat catching the sun, her laugh soft and unguarded. He smiled, not at the food, not even at her words, but at the cadence of her voice as she praised the stall and, by extension, him. She gave credit easily, like it cost her nothing - and yet he felt the weight of it.

Something in him softened. The Adrian of suits and silent meetings, of spreadsheets like scalpels, of win-or-die-tomorrow business calls - he felt that man dissolve, just slightly. His spine didn't brace the way it usually did, and his jaw, too often tensed from the day's residue, unclenched. The performance of control, of cold knowingness, wavered like heat above tarmac. He hadn't realised how much of him had calcified into the role until now, until this unguarded hour, with her across the table, licking a smear of hoisin from her thumb and humming softly at the taste.

This was not who he had been for years. And that truth, that sudden awareness, frightened him in ways his boardroom enemies never had. Because this version of himself - the one who didn't measure every second for productivity, who noticed the precise arc of her laughter and the way she tapped her foot to the beat of some nearby music - this version was almost unrecognisable. Almost juvenile. And yet, there was a wild thrill in that unfamiliarity, the rush of being temporarily miscast in a role he hadn't auditioned for. As though life had decided, without asking him, to let him play the romantic lead. He hadn't realised how loud his solitude had grown until she silenced it.

By the time they stood up to continue wandering through the food market, the crowd weaving and spilling like heat-drunk river water, he found himself walking just a fraction closer to her. It wasn't intentional. It wasn't even romantic. It was, if anything, a physical admission of comfort. A gesture that said, I no longer need the whole of my personal space to feel safe. There was no need for the armour here. Not with her. And it wasn't about wanting to impress her. That wasn't quite it. He'd met too many people who demanded to be dazzled. Delilah was different. She noticed the world the way chefs taste sauces - methodically, sensually, unapologetically curious. And somehow, being around her made him want to notice things too. Things beyond metrics and projections. Things like the scent of grilled lemongrass in the air. Like the way her hair caught just enough wind to become a kind of halo. Like the sound of her boots against concrete, always just ahead of his, like she was leading him somewhere he hadn't dared go before.

At the drink stall, the sun was lower now, pushing its last heat into the crowd, and the air shimmered with the scent of citrus and sugar and something vaguely medicinal - herbs and spirits, muddled in mason jars by young men with tattoos and ironic moustaches. When she turned to ask if he wanted something stronger, he felt his mouth curve into another smile. Less polite this time. Less curated.

"Surprise me," he said. "You're the culinary expert here."

The words had come easily, too easily, and he wondered if she heard what he hadn't said aloud: I trust you. With this. With a little more than just this.

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? Not just a drink. Not just a meal. But a surrender, slow and subtle, to someone who seemed to have no intention of hurting him, and yet, could do so effortlessly if she chose. Not because she was cruel, but because she was real. Because she saw things, and because she saw him, not just the version he put on for corporate bloodsport. That recognition - it was dangerous.

But still, he welcomed it. He welcomed the pull of gravity bending him in her direction, the way a tide yields to the moon without protest. He welcomed this version of himself, this strange, tentative creature who smiled too easily and asked to be surprised. He didn't know what drink she'd bring back, or what twist she'd add to it, but it didn't matter. The real surprise had already arrived. And it wasn't in a glass.

It was in the realization that some parts of him weren't dead after all. Just dormant. Waiting.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah had been watching him longer than she realized—really watching. Not in that romanticized, dreamy-eyed way so many women had when they looked at men like Adrian, but with something more grounded. She could see why so many women romanticized about Adrian. There were several reasons but she wasn’t sure how pure a lot of women’s intentions were with him. Then again she wasn’t sure if Adrian enjoyed the bachelor life style ever since his screw up with his ex. Either way it wasn’t her business. It wasn’t like he was trying to peruse her or was interested in her. Delilah went back to her previous thoughts, noticing was her thing, and it was rare for someone to hold her interest like he was.

He was loosening, that much she could tell. His shoulders had settled from their typical square, rigid tension into something that looked almost… human. His voice had a bit of gravel now, not the clipped, perfectly controlled cadence he used when he was pretending to enjoy himself. And she hadn't missed the way his eyes softened around the edges when he smiled—not the one he gave in boardrooms, but the one he gave just now, almost involuntarily.

She didn't take his tone as anything but genuine. In fact, it delighted her. She wasn't the kind of woman to mistake seriousness for depth. But Adrian's kind of seriousness? It was layered. Measured. Like someone who built walls not because he wanted to be alone, but because he didn't trust anyone to leave the place intact. Until now, maybe. She stepped up to the drink stall, eyes scanning the handwritten chalkboard with a focus that made the tattooed bartender pause mid-shake to give her a nod of respect. She pointed at a drink near the bottom of the list, one most people would skip: Tamarind Heat—tamarind pulp, mezcal, Thai chili tincture, lime zest, and a smoky sugar rim. It wasn't sweet. It wasn't dressed up in umbrellas or hollow flair. It was bold. Sharp. Complicated. Like him.

"This one," she told the bartender, "twice." He looked surprised, maybe even a little impressed. "You sure? It's got a kick." Delilah smirked. "Good. I think he and I need a good kick." She said simply and the man couldn’t help but laugh. She wasn’t trying to be funny but it made her smile a bit when she notice that she did make the guy laugh. “Here. Take them. No need to pay. Thanks for the laugh.” The man said. Delish thanked him for the

When the drinks were ready, the glasses were thick, weighty, and sweating in the heat. “Here you go.” She said to Adrian as she handed him the drink. She didn't hesitate—just downed hers like a shot, eyes closing briefly at the punch of spice and smoke. There was no dramatic gasp, no posturing. She wasn't trying to impress Adrian.

She just was.

She licked the rim clean without thinking twice and held the second drink out to him. "Your turn," she said, flashing him a crooked grin. "And yes it’s strong. Not sure how you’ll like it but it tasted delicious.”

As he took the glass from her, her fingers brushed his for a beat too long—not by accident. Not entirely on purpose, either. Just one of those moments that felt like something but when brushed it off as nothing. She studied him then, quiet and still, letting the marketplace noise fall into the background. Lanterns had begun to flicker to life overhead, casting soft shadows across the stretch of cobbled path. Adrian looked different in that light. Less CEO. Less carefully arranged man of control. More himself, whoever that was. And in that small stillness, Delilah realized something that made her stomach twist, not with nerves but with recognition.

She was actually enjoying time with Adrian. More than she probably should. Delilah wasn't trying to own him. She wasn't trying to fix him. She just wanted to continue to see him.

“We can keep walking once you finish your drink. All of it.” She said with a playful smirk. She waited patiently for him to finish. There was so much more than just drinks and food at the night market. She wanted to look at all the homemade goods and maybe even get some organic lotions or soaps.