occasionally subtle
RMH
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d e v o n
Phantogram Three
Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
Product Placement
The Bowery Presents
Fieri Frames
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
The Stonewall Inn
Interview Vampire Daily
taylor price
Claire Keane
PR's Tumblrdome
Discoholic 🪩
todays bird
cherry valley forever
🪼
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seen from Finland
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@theuniverseofchaos
cassius a. deluna | 45, lawyer @ beacon law group, portrayed by edgar ramirez | intro.
alfie j. stark | 39, bouncer @ glowing embers, portrayed by max irons | intro. eden y. santos | 32, family medicine doctor @ haven health, portrayed by adria arjona | intro.
anika k. shah | 31, radio host @ clearwater radio, portrayed by simone ashley | intro.
who: cass’ lovely sister, angel (@blcssomfully)
where: cass’ front porch
Cass didn’t bother knocking. Just pushed the screen door open with his foot and walked out onto the porch like he owned the place—because, technically, he did. Beer in one hand, a bag of chips in the other, he gave Angela a once-over as she sat curled in one of the chairs, phone in her lap, face scrunched up in whatever article or text she was reading.
“Damn, you always this dramatic when you read a Yelp review?”
He dropped into the chair across from her, popping the cap off his bottle and tossing it somewhere near the planter.
“Tell me that’s not another tabloid.”
He leaned back, kicked his boots up onto the railing, and opened the chips like it was his own private movie night.
“Go on then. What’s it say this time? That you ran off to Clearwater to join a cult? That you’re pregnant with a stuntman’s baby?”
He squinted, faking seriousness.
“Or my personal favorite—secretly hiding from the FBI in my guest room. Real creative, that one.”
He tossed a chip at her, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to break her concentration.
“You been here three months, Angel. Thought we had a rule—no working yourself into a spiral on the porch. This is sacred ground. Only good vibes, bad snacks, and unsolicited sibling advice allowed.”
He grinned around the rim of his beer, then softened just a touch.
“You alright, though? You seem… I don’t know. Kinda like you’re thinkin’ too loud.”
It was classic Cass—joking first, concern second, but always watching. Always making sure his sister was okay, even if it came wrapped in a bag of Ruffles and sarcasm.
He didn't know Cass very well, but he did know enough that it was a bad idea to be standing around in his space without an explanation. Antonio scoffed softly under his breath, reminding himself not to take the tone personally.
"Apologies, I didn't mean to gawk," he replied. His intention wasn't to irritate the other, but tell his appreciation since he, personally, knew nothing about boxing. Staying generally fit was one thing, but throwing a worthwhile punch was another.
"I wouldn't know the first thing about using that thing, so you go ahead. I was just curious how long you'd been in the sport. I have a lot of respect for boxing, but unfortunately I don't do much more than just bet on it sometimes." But if the other didn't want to talk, he wouldn't push it; not everyone came to the gym to socialize.
Cass didn’t answer right away—not because he hadn’t heard, but because he was sizing the guy up like he would an opponent. Not hostile, just… measured. He pulled off one glove with his teeth, let it dangle at his side, then finally gave a low grunt that could’ve passed as approval—or just acknowledgment.
“You weren’t gawkin’. You were starin’. That’s different,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to suggest he wasn’t actually pissed. Not really. “But I’ve had worse lookin’ spectators, so I’ll let it slide.”
He reached for his water bottle, took a slow sip, then leaned back against the bag with the kind of casual posture that still carried weight behind it. Eyes sharp, tone even.
“Started in the Navy. Stayed with it after. Discipline. Control. Keeps my head straight.” He gave a shrug like it wasn’t anything more than brushing his teeth or checking the locks on his door. Routine. Survival.
“Betting on it’s easy. Steppin’ in and takin’ a hit? Whole different world. Don’t matter how strong you are if you don’t know how to take a punch.” His gaze flicked to Antonio, not accusatory, just observant. Curious, in his own blunt way.
“You ever try?” he asked after a moment, voice low but clear. “Or you just stick to the sidelines?”
"You don't like the sound of my voice?" Elio answered with a grin. He wasn't usually this bold, but it seemed to him as if Cass was the kind of guy where you either raised your energy to meet his, or he'd swallow you whole. "Keep calling me stuff like sunshine and I might start to think you're flirting with me."
Cass could claim to not be nervous all he wanted, but Elio knew, and the horse would know. They were smarter than humans in a lot of ways. They knew what their riders could and couldn't handle. Put a little kid on their back, and they'd walk nice and slow, gentle as a newborn chick. Get a pro rider up there leading them with their seat and they'd turn up the volume in a heartbeat.
"Did anyone ever tell you you're really cynical?" Elio's words came without judgement, and with the usual playful tone he and Cass seemed to have fallen into naturally. "Sometimes life is just life, man. It's give and take." Elio couldn't really talk. He'd really had a pretty charmed upbringing, and he knew that. He'd never truly had to struggle, other than when he'd had to come to terms with knowing his parents had lied to him about his brother. Others weren't so fortunate. He didn't know Cass' whole story, but he imagined a military history gave any man a reason not to always believe life was butterflies and rainbows.
"And here I was gonna get you a cowboy hat and some pretty boots for your next birthday. Here ya go! You're doing good, man. Look, he's responding to your rein. Now just do another lap, change direction, and do it from the other way. Whatever we do on one side, we wanna do on the other. Keeps the horse balanced, and us, too."
Cass glanced over, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly—not quite a smirk, but close. “Didn’t say I didn’t like your voice, sunshine,” he drawled, throwing it back without missing a beat. “Just sayin’ you talk a lot. Ain’t the same thing.” He let the reins loosen a touch in his grip, enough to give the horse some breathing room without giving up control. The big guy had more sense than half the people Cass had met in his lifetime.
“And if I was flirtin’ with you, Elio, you wouldn’t be wonderin’ about it,” he added after a beat, deadpan, letting that one land as he focused back on the turn. The horse followed his cue smoother this time—less jerky, more responsive. Progress.
At the comment about him being cynical, Cass gave a low, dry laugh. “Only every damn day.” He didn’t argue the label, didn’t flinch at it either. There was no venom behind the tone, just matter-of-fact honesty, like it was a jacket he’d been wearing too long to bother taking off anymore. “Been through too much shit to pretend life’s fair. Doesn’t mean I don’t take what I can get, though. I just know better than to expect it.”
He adjusted the reins again, turned the horse like Elio told him, trying to mirror the earlier movement. He wasn’t graceful, but he was picking it up. Slowly. Carefully. The same way he picked up everything in his life—tight grip, measured steps, and eyes always on the next move.
“Don’t waste your money on the hat and boots,” he said, brow furrowing a little. “Unless you want me lookin’ like one of those Halloween cowboys. That’ll scare the horses off for real.”
He let the horse move into another lap, more relaxed now, but still focused. The kind of quiet that settled in his bones when he wasn’t thinking about anything else but the next move and the weight in his hands.
“Still ain’t gonna say I like this,” he muttered after a while. “But it’s not the worst way to clear your head.”
⸻ Clara looked at Cass, and nodded with a small chuckle upon his first question. ❛ It's okay. I should've said something, instead of waiting for you to finish it. ❜ He was so concentrated that she didn't mean to interrupt his 'routine'. Once he step back, she walked forward to use the punching bag. ❛ Did you have a hard time lately? ❜ She inquired curiously, while she prepared her position, to use the material.
❛ I train every day. It used to be part of my routine. ❜ The routine she had when she was a professional ballerina. And throughout the years, she developed a liking for doing exercises. And then the punches begin, all perfect, everything well sync, her breath was ragged, and very focused on her target [ the punching bag ] .
Cass didn’t answer right away. He stood off to the side, towel slung over one shoulder, watching her as she took position. There was something sharp in the way she moved—focused, deliberate. A kind of elegance in the violence. He respected that.
“You didn’t have to say anything,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges like it always was. “I should’ve been paying better attention.”
He folded his arms, letting his weight shift onto one leg as he watched her strike the bag—every motion crisp, efficient. Clean hits. No wasted movement. He nodded once, almost to himself.
“Yeah… it’s been a shit stretch,” he admitted. The words came out like gravel, but they were honest. No need to dress it up. “Too much in my head lately. This helps me shut it up for a bit.”
He looked at her a moment longer, then let his gaze fall to her fists.
“You move like someone who used to be trained for something different. Not just fighting. Something precise. Dance, maybe?” There was no teasing in his tone—just observation, quiet and matter-of-fact. He tipped his chin toward her hands. “But you throw punches like you mean ‘em. That’s rare.”
A pause, then softer:
“You always that focused? Or just tonight?”
⸻ Her grey-bluish hues flew in the direction he was showing, her expression still stoic, per usual. The soft music, to her ears, if she wasn't exhausted, she would get up and dance by herself alone. This is not the case. After hours, confined to the studio to be live throughout the week on the news channel.
She crossed her leg to the other side, flipping her silky hair with the back of her hand, feeling the smell of her own expensive perfume in her nostrils, taking a small sip of her drink. And then she turned her head to look at him after getting distracted by the musicians for a bit. Behind her grey-bluish hues shows tiredness. ❛ I am not from here either. I am kinda new here too. But I was unable to explore the city, I've been too busy working and having personal matters. ❜ Which wasn't a lie. What she omitted is the exhaustion of taking care of a baby during the night.
❛ I suppose you guessed right. I can't judge you for living under a rock, though. ❜ She says a bit playfully, which is rare. Not always does she feel a bit playful with people, especially strangers. Still, she tries to be careful since she is a public figure. She toasted her glass against his. ❛ Sasha. I'm Russian. ❜ The blonde did not have an accent; she had a lot of coaching to help her talk on TV. ❛ If you come here often, I could start coming here too. But on sporadic days. ❜
Alfie clinked his glass softly against hers, the motion unhurried, casual—like everything he did. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly at the rare flash of playfulness, like he’d caught something most people missed.
“Russian, eh? Figured there was somethin’ a bit sharp about you. Elegant. Controlled. Like you’d break someone’s fingers without spillin’ your drink.” He smirked, clearly joking, clearly intrigued.
He took another sip and let his gaze drift over the room before coming back to her, tone easing just a touch. “I hear you, though. Work eats up most of the day. Nights like this…” he gestured vaguely, “feel like some rare endangered species. Might not see it again for a bit, so you gotta take it in.”
Then, a low chuckle. “And for the record, I only live under a rock part-time. The other half I spend tryin’ to work out what the hell I’m supposed to be doin’ here.” He paused. “New town, new people, whole lotta guesswork.”
He leaned back a bit, eyes never quite leaving hers.
“So—Sasha. If you’re really thinkin’ about comin’ back, I’ll take that as a personal win.” A beat. “And if it’s just sporadic… well. I’ll make sure the jazz is good enough to tempt you.”
His grin curved slow, boyish but sly.
“Besides, it’d be a bit of a shame not to run into you again.”
David was simply checking on the man since he had no clients for a few hours. He didn't expect the attitude but then again maybe he had interrupted his workout. ''I was just watching how strong you are with that bag. My first person for the day doesn't come in until later so I was just checking on everyone. It isn't my job but I do it to be nice.''
Cassius slowed his punches, the rhythm still steady but less aggressive as he glanced over his shoulder. He took in David’s tone first, then the words, and just gave a quiet grunt in acknowledgment—not rude, but not warm either. That was just how he was wired, especially mid-workout.
“You’re doin’ more than most already,” he said finally, voice low and gravel-edged from exertion. “Not your job, but you’re still checkin’. Says more about you than whatever the hell I’m throwin’ at this bag.” He pulled back and let the bag swing lightly, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.
“Didn’t mean to come off like an asshole,” he added after a beat, glancing at David with a nod that was a little closer to sincere. “Just in my head today.” He left it at that, because explanations weren’t really his style, but he made the effort. That had to count for something.
“Appreciate the check-in.” Another nod. “Hope the first client ain’t a pain in your ass.”
"You ain't got aggression." She reciprocated the sentence but softer as she was nodded. "I see, I see." She said as she laughed softly, "Nope. Not saying that and I'm certainly not doing a wellness check. I don't get paid for that. Just reminding myself to keep my space because ya know, you're dealing with your leftover energy from the day." Athen snickered a bit after she finished her sentence.
"And what exactly makes you think I don't know how to throw a proper punch? Have you seen me here before going after the bag? In that case, you'd be the one watching others too so I mean better be careful." She said as she then turned back towards the weights that she was eyeing up.
Cassius snorted, that sharp, half-amused kind of sound that said alright, fair enough without actually giving her the verbal satisfaction.
“Yeah? You don’t do wellness checks, huh?” he echoed, glancing her way with a crooked smirk as he leaned a little back from the bag, letting his arms hang loose for a second. “You say that, but you walked over here real quick like you had a clipboard in hand.” He gave her a knowing look, as if daring her to keep denying it.
The snicker made his brow lift, head tilting as he studied her like he was reassessing a game plan. When she threw back her own observation, his lips pulled into a slow grin—sharp, teasing, but not unkind.
“I didn’t say you didn’t know how to punch, sweetheart,” he drawled. “I just know how to tell when someone’s holdin’ back.” He let that hang in the air a beat, then pushed lightly off the bag, rubbing at his knuckles like he was done with it—for now.
“But hey, next time you’re feelin’ extra motivated, I’ll let you have the bag. Might even stick around to watch. Gotta keep my skills sharp.” His tone was even, smooth, but the hint of a smirk said he was absolutely provoking her on purpose.
He gave a nod toward the weights she was eyeing. “Don’t hurt yourself now. I’d hate to be responsible for gettin’ in the way of your reps.”
Jin raised both eyebrows at the “naturally gifted” line being thrown back at him. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You caught that one, huh?” he said, shrugging, and not even trying to defend himself. “Look, I never said it was a humble gift.” He crossed his arms loosely, glancing from Cassius to the punching bag, then back. “Alright, first of all, yes, I was staring at my playlist like my life depended on it, because if I accidentally pick a slow song mid-sprint again, I could trip and fall, and possibly die.” He said dramatically, pointing a finger at Cassius to drive the point home.
Jin’s gaze drifted to the gloves at Cassius’ wrists, considering. He was about to deflect again, to say something sarcastic about how he was more of a “punching bag with feelings” for his own use, than someone who actually threw punches in real life, but instead he hesitated. “It’s been a while since I did boxing.” He said with a sigh. He had tried it a few times, but it hadn’t stuck. “Unless you count existential dread at 2AM.” He joked. “But if it can get me out of another session on one of those,” he looked back to the treadmill like it had personally offended him. “I’ll be willing to consider a change of pace.” he added with a dry smile. “Let’s see what you’ve got to teach me, coach.”
He glanced down at his taped hands and rolled his wrists slowly, stretching out the joints. “Playlist death by treadmill’s a new one though. Can’t say I’ve seen it happen, but if you go down mid-sprint to Celine Dion or somethin’… I’m leavin’ you there. Don’t care how tragic the fall.”
When Jin said he’d done boxing before, Cass’s brow lifted slightly, something assessing passing through his expression. He didn’t press, didn’t ask why it hadn’t stuck—he recognized that kind of throwaway line when he heard it. Everyone had their ghosts. Cassius wasn’t in the business of exorcising them unless someone asked.
“Existential dread at 2AM don’t count,” he muttered, grabbing a set of mitts from the bench nearby. “That’s just called bein’ alive.”
He walked over and held them up, nodding toward the center of the mat. “Alright then, gifted boy. Let’s see if you still remember how to hit. Show me what you got. Light jabs first. No flailing. And if you break your damn wrist, I’m not fillin’ out paperwork.”
Then, with a half-grin, “Coach Cass has arrived. God help us both.”
for: anyone (2/4) @clearwaterstarters where: bon appetreat, cake decorating class
Cake decorating was a lot like painting, except in the sense that it wasn't whatsoever. Tony was able to mix colors no problem, and felt he'd done well enough on the galaxy 'pattern' that someone could know what he was going for, but getting the piping right? Impossible. After a fourth attempt and having the instructor carefully remove the offending frosting, he turned to the person next to him to see their progress and if they could be of any help with limited teachers flitting about the room. "Please tell me I'm not the only one suffering here. I can understand more now why professional cakes are so expensive with all this effort."
Anika glanced up from her own cake—well, situation—with an arched brow and a smirk that could slice fondant. Her piping work was decent, sure, but the galaxy swirl? It looked more like the Milky Way had a breakdown. Still, she was owning it.
“Oh, you’re definitely not alone,” she said, resting her piping bag down like it personally offended her. “Mine looks like the Milky Way after a bar fight. But hey, at least yours has intent. I respect that.”
She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice like they were conspiring against the buttercream gods. “Pretty sure that lady over there just used a spoon and called it abstract expressionism. Honestly? I’m stealing the idea.”
Then, a playful glance. “So—Tony, right? How much of this is for fun, and how much is to impress someone with a cake that looks like it came from Pinterest but screams ‘I tried’?”
who: open @clearwaterstarters (3/5) where: cherry blossom festival
The Cherry Blossom Festival had always been Julien's favorite time of the year. There was something about the flowers that inspired creativity and caused him to believe that life could one day be perfect again; it was an illusion, of course, but Julien didn't mind giving in to it if just for a bit. "So," he said speaking over his shoulder to the person beside him, "how'd I do? Live up to expectations or have you seen better?"
Eden glanced over at him, the corners of her mouth already curling into a smile. The petals had caught in her hair somewhere along the walk—soft pink against dark waves—and she hadn’t bothered to brush them away.
“You’re asking that like you didn’t already know the answer,” she teased, slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat as they moved beneath the canopy of trees. “I mean, the cherry blossoms did a lot of the heavy lifting, but sure—I’ll give you some credit.”
She paused to tilt her face up toward the branches, letting the light filter through lashes and leaves.
“Honestly?” she said, turning her gaze back to him, “You kinda killed it. It’s been a long time since I let myself slow down like this.”
A softer note slipped into her voice, unspoken things tucked beneath it like petals under glass.
“Thanks for the illusion. I needed it.”
✷ name: anika kavya shah
✷ nickname(s): ani, nik
✷ gender: cis woman ( she / her )
✷ orientation: bisexual
✷ date of birth: november 26 ( 31 )
✷ occupation: radio host – wclr 98.7fm: wake up, clearwater @ clearwater radio
✷ main location: downtown
—
✷ height: 5’7”
✷ weight: 132 lbs
✷ body type: lean, long-limbed, always looks like she just stepped out of an editorial
✷ eye color: deep hazel with gold flecks
✷ hair color: jet black, thick and always styled with purpose
✷ dominant hand: right
✷ tattoos: tiny microphone on her inner wrist, radio tower behind her left ear, and a line of script in hindi along her ribs that no one’s ever seen unless they’ve really earned it
✷ piercings: doubles in both ears, helix on the left
✷ scars: a small one under her chin from a childhood fall off her bike
✷ conditions: insomnia (manages it with espresso and midnight playlists), occasional panic attacks (masked by control and charisma)
—
✷ intelligence: socially strategic, emotionally razor-sharp
✷ type: verbal-linguistic · existential
✷ skills: interviewing like a pro · cutting off a politician mid-lie with grace · curating perfect playlists · reading people’s bullshit instantly · making dead air sound poetic
✷ likes: late-night edits · oversized headphones · calling people out with a smile · silk shirts · rainy days and revolution talk · the power of a well-placed song
✷ dislikes: fake apologies · mansplainers · silence without meaning · weak coffee · when people say “you’re too much” like it’s a bad thing
—
anika shah didn’t come to clearwater to be liked—she came to be heard. raised in jersey city with a voice that could command a room by age eight, she grew up knowing two things: the truth matters, and someone’s gotta say it out loud. after a scandalous exit from a major nyc station (and one viral on-air moment that burned every bridge on her way out), she landed in clearwater with nothing but her mic, her mouth, and something to prove.
now, she’s the unapologetic voice behind “wake up, clearwater”, the morning show everyone in town either loves or rage-listens to. politics, playlists, public call-outs—if it’s happening in town, anika’s already dissected it live. off-air, she’s a little quieter, a little softer, but still impossible to bullshit. she keeps her circle tight, her standards high, and her past behind glass—where it stays unless you’re brave enough to ask.
she’s ambition in a silk blouse. charisma with a bite. clearwater might not be ready for her, but that’s never stopped her before.
𝑂𝑃𝐸𝑁 𝑇𝑂: Everyone. @clearwaterstarters 𝑊𝐻𝐸𝑅𝐸 | 𝑊𝐻𝐸𝑁: Outside of Pure Roots, afternoon or evening.
⸻ The desire to be home borders on biblical, at this point, after the longest and most exhausting shift he's had in awhile. It shows in his expression, now that he's off the clock and sitting in front of Pure Roots, waiting for an Uber or Lyft ride home that isn't astronomical in price. He really wishes his humble sedan wasn't in the shop right now.
"Hey, mate," to the nearest person, putting on the friendliest smile he can manage. "You got a cigarette I can bum?" He quit years ago but they don't need to know that.
When he heard the voice, he glanced up from under his brow, slow and deliberate. His eyes settled on the man who’d spoken—looked dead on his feet, outfit slightly wrinkled, that post-shift glaze in his eyes Cass knew too damn well.
He didn’t smile, exactly, but there was something faintly amused in his expression. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the pack, and flicked it open with two fingers. “Lucky day,” he muttered, offering the guy one of the last smokes in the box. “Ain’t usually in the business of charity, but you look like hell.”
He handed over the lighter next, letting the silence settle for a beat as they both exhaled the kind of shared exhaustion that didn’t need explaining.
“Long shift?” he asked, voice gravel-worn and low. “Or just life bein’ life?”
Liking Pirate was a good way to get on Corey's good side. They adored that little cat, no matter how much cat fur he left on their bedsheets and dark clothing. Corey was still weighing Alfie up, and it would take more than one meeting before they really started to approve of him or trust him, but their reaction at the moment was one of cautious optimism.
"Lot of people can't even assemble Ikea furniture these days. I've had a few bookings from those find a tradesperson apps that's just people wanting to pay me to assemble flatpack furniture." Corey didn't mind. Easy money. But they'd rather sell their own shit. It was better made, and lasted longer.
"I'm not teaching you how to do my job. You might steal my customers," Corey scoffed, only half-joking. "But maybe I can teach you some simple stuff. Guy called Eddie taught me. He was a friend of mom's. Took my dumb ass on as an apprentice when I realized I was gonna need to get a real job." Corey knit their brows together, feeling the need to address the elephant in the room.
"So you really don't know anything else about our dad, or who he is?"
“Nah, I’m not tryin’ to nick your job, mate,” he said, stretching one arm out across the back of the couch. “Just curious. I mean—sounds like a damn racket. Good on you, though. Easy dough if you’ve got more than two brain cells and know what a screwdriver looks like.” His tone was warm, teasing, but there was that note of quiet respect tucked underneath. He meant it.
He scratched at his jaw, pausing before adding with a slight shrug, “Wouldn’t mind learnin’ a few things. Not ‘cause I wanna compete—just reckon it’s good to know how to fix shit if you’ve got two hands. Builds character, right?” A beat. “Plus, might impress someone one day if I can build a bookshelf without startin’ a fire.”
But then Corey’s voice shifted, the mood tightening just slightly. Alfie glanced back over, his fingers brushing absently against the cup before he gave a subtle shake of his head.
“Swear down, I don’t. Not a fuckin’ clue. Didn’t even know his name growin’ up. My mum never said much—just that he was American, didn’t stick around, and she wasn’t arsed about talkin’ ‘bout him.” He gave a dry huff of a laugh. “Didn’t even think about him, not really. Then boom, there’s you.”
His eyes flicked back to Corey, voice softening—not apologetic, exactly, but something close.
“I get if it’s weird. I’m still wrapin’ my head round it too. But nah. No oil tycoon’s will we’re gettin’ written into.”
"Yup, just keep telling yourself that, cowboy," Elio added. He had an ever-present smile, one that seemed to never fade from either his lips or his eyes, the manner about him of a person who truly enjoyed what they did, the interaction with both the horses and the people, to watch people learning. "I think you love hearing me say you're doing a good job. Helps calm those nerves." Elio continued to watch. On one of Cass' stops, he'd removed the lead rope, trusting that Cass had enough control now that he didn't need it.
"That's it, just remember to keep your hands low, and when you're steering, tug towards your knee on the side you want him to go. Just remember, the reins are attached to a bit in his mouth, so we don't ever wanna be too rough with it." He had horses that would wear bitless bridles, side pulls, hackamores, ones that could be ridden bareback, but he liked to teach people with the bit first, so they got a good idea of the pressure and how to use their hands.
Elio put the cones out, just some simple, brightly colored ones that you might use to mark areas on a makeshift soccer field. "You really have trust issues, ya know? On the one hand, you're saying this is the most relaxed you've felt, and on the other, you think it's a trick. Cling to the relaxed side. It's nice." Elio stepped back, looking at the makeshift course he'd made. "Okay, you're all set. In and out, and then just continue around the edge."
Cass let out a low grunt, barely suppressing the roll of his eyes as he turned the horse toward the new little obstacle course Elio had set out. “Keep talkin’, sunshine. I’m gonna start thinkin’ you just like the sound of your own voice.” The edge in his tone wasn’t harsh, though—more like he was chewing on a smirk and trying not to let it show.
Still, his hands did drop just a little. His movements were slower now, more deliberate. The kind of cautious confidence that came from trying to respect something he didn’t fully understand yet. He glanced down at the reins, shifting the tension with a gentler touch than he’d had earlier.
“Ain’t nerves. I just don’t like not knowin’ what the hell I’m doin’. That’s all.” A pause, and then, after a breath, “But yeah… feels good.” He said it like it cost him something. Like admitting he didn’t hate it meant Elio was winning somehow.
Cass guided the horse toward the cones, eyeing them like they’d done something to personally offend him. “I ain’t got trust issues,” he muttered under his breath, which was the kind of thing only someone with deep-seated trust issues would say. “I just believe in facts. And the fact is, life don’t usually hand you a nice day without takin’ somethin’ back later.”
He leaned slightly, steering carefully between the cones with a level of focus that was almost comical given how simple the task was. But he was determined not to fuck it up.
“Don’t go gettin’ cocky over there,” he added, throwing a glance Elio’s way. “I ain’t about to join a rodeo or start dressin’ like I’m in one. Just takin’ it one step at a time.” A beat. Then, quieter, more sincere: “But thanks. For real.”
He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. The tone carried enough weight on its own.
⸻ It wasn't often lately that Sasha hung out at night, not ever since she became a mother. Her daughter is still very dependent on her, but that day she decided she would stay for a bit listening to good jazz before heading home. Besides, she needs to meet more people in town. Staying at home, she wouldn't meet anyone, and her little princess was with the nanny; earlier, while she had to work in the studio per usual. Naturally, she texted the nanny saying she'd delay a bit, and the extras would be guaranteed.
The atmosphere was welcoming, despite the feel of fish out of water. The music was well played, the bohemians laughing in their respective groups, and every kind of people were in it. Sasha perched herself on a stool, ordering a non-alcoholic cocktail. Grey-bluish hues watched curiously as the bartender prepared her drink, and the decoration, according to him 'extra special'.
Once he gave her a cocktail, she tilted her head to see the man beside her, her brow arched. ❛ Can it be a little of both? Also, I hadn't been out like this in a while. ❜ He was kind of cute, in her point of view, but she kept her thoughts to herself. ❛ Are you always here? ❜
Alfie gave a short laugh as he turned slightly on the barstool to face her a bit more, elbow resting lazy on the counter, glass still in his other hand.
“A little of both, is it? That’s fair. Reckon I could say the same. Didn’t exactly plan to be out tonight either, but…” he gestured vaguely to the space, the dim light, the warm hum of jazz in the air. “Place ain’t bad. Kinda grows on you.”
He took a sip of his drink, studying her in that easy, unbothered way of his—observant but not intrusive. Just clockin’ the details. Classy type, well put together, definitely not from around here in the way most folks weren’t from around here.
“Nah, not always here. First time, actually.” A half-shrug. “New in town, more or less. Thought I’d see what the nightlife’s sayin’.” A beat. “You don’t exactly scream ‘local’ either, though.”
There was a flicker of mischief in his grin as he added, “So either you just moved in, or I’ve been livin’ under a rock.”
He lifted his glass slightly toward her in a casual toast. “Alfie, by the way. Since we’re doin’ mysterious strangers at the bar an’ all.”
The only reason Jin was at the gym was because it was healthy, not because he wanted to prove anything. He worked out to take care of himself – something he was slightly embarrassed to admit was a relatively new habit of his. He usually went at night, when most people were anywhere but at the gym. To be honest, he straight up hated it there. So this was the compromise.
After a while on the treadmill, Jin had stopped to scroll through his phone, trying to find the perfect song for his next workout. Everything was better with a theme song. Especially working out. “What?” He looked up when he heard someone talking to him. Oh… Cassius. He remembered him from that night at the diner.
“Nah, man, you can have your little sparring friend to yourself,” he said, one brow raised as he gave the punching bag a sidelong look. “I know this isn’t a museum. A museum would actually be enjoyable compared to this torture dungeon.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket, headphones now resting around his neck. “I’m just here to survive the next thirty minutes, so I can go back to pretending I’m just naturally gifted.”
Cass eyed him with a dry little grin, the kind that tugged up one corner of his mouth and made it damn near impossible to tell if he was impressed or just amused. He tossed the towel he’d been using over one shoulder, slow stride carrying him closer to where Jin stood by the treadmill.
“Naturally gifted, huh?” he echoed, giving him a quick once-over. “That why you been staring down that playlist like your life depends on it?” The teasing was light, but there was a sharpness to Cass’s voice—he had the tone of someone who didn’t know how to be soft even when he was trying to be friendly.
His eyes flicked to the punching bag and back again.
“This place ain’t that bad. Beats sittin’ around stewing in your own damn thoughts, anyway.” A beat passed, then he nodded at the gloves hanging from his wrist. “You ever hit one of those before? Could teach you a thing or two. Might help with the survival part.”
He didn’t push it—Cass didn’t need to. The offer hung in the air, no pressure attached, just the weight of it being there. He leaned against the edge of the ring and dragged a hand down his face, scratching at the scruff along his jaw.
“’Course, if you’d rather suffer through cardio with Spotify savin’ your soul, be my guest.” He smirked. “Just don’t say I didn’t offer you a better outlet.”
