A Helping Hand (AJS Roleplaying x Kita-san)

[AJS Roleplaying]

A HELPING HAND A Roleplay Brought to You By: ​

Adrian Wolfe written by AJS Roleplaying ​

Delilah (Lilah) Hayward written by Kita-san ​

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[AJS Roleplaying]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Kita-san]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Kita-san]

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

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

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

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

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

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

But— Her mother.

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

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

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

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

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

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

And for a split second, he froze.

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

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

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

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

Or everything.​

 

[Kita-san]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

"Messy, but good."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Messy. But, it was good.
​

 

[Kita-san]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"See you again soon, Delilah."

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

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

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

 

[Kita-san]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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