Category: Romance

Charts & Hearts story #1

Welcome to the first Charts & Hearts novelette (Word count: ~10,000).

In Gambling Fate, a nurse driven by duty and a gambler driven by life’s risks find themselves caught in destiny’s game one Halloween night. This Human Design-inspired novelette can be read on its own — no background knowledge needed.

But if you’re interested in the energy dynamics of these two characters and would like to meet them through their Human Design charts, click here:

Please note that I plan to post November’s Chart and Heart #2 story here as well, but as of January, I will be posting stories solely on Substack. If you’d like to be notified of their release, please consider subscribing.

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Chapter 1

“Raise you a hundred.”

Gold Tooth shoved a sloppy stack of chips forward, his rings clicking against the felt. Vaughn rolled a single chip across his knuckles, smooth as silk, then flicked it onto the felt.

“Call.”

The dealer burned a card, then dealt two hole cards to each player. Vaughn lifted his just enough to glimpse the pips, then dropped them flat again. No flicker on his face, just that lazy half-grin that tended to get under people’s skin.

“Canadian, huh?” Gold Tooth leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Figures. Pale as milk and ginger on top. You don’t exactly blend down here. What’s a man from Vancouver want with our little game?”

Before Vaughn could answer, the man in the battered hat cut in. His beard was patchy, his eyes sharp. “I invited him. Watched him tear up a table in Vegas last spring. Man plays like he’s got nine lives. Figured it’d be fun to see how he handled the Queen.”

The River Queen. The gaudy riverboat casino moored out on the Mississippi, its lower decks packed with tourists throwing quarters into slots, its upper rooms reserved for high rollers and men who thought they were.

He gave a shrug. “Came for Halloween, mostly. I mean, Vancouver does pumpkins and parties, sure, but nothing like New Orleans. I figured if I was going to do it, I’d do it right — masks, music, maybe even a haunted mansion tour if I get lucky. And hey…” He pushed a neat stack of chips forward. “Might as well win a little spending money while I’m at it. Makes the souvenirs taste sweeter.”

Gold Tooth snorted. “Souvenirs. That’s cute.”

Beard & Cap just smirked into his glass, as if the joke was already on Vaughn.

A waitress in black tights and a crooked witch’s hat dropped off a round of drinks. Vaughn took in the surroundings one more time. Neon cocktails glowed under the dim lights, plastic skeletons dangled from the ceiling, paper bats sagged in the humidity. Out on Bourbon Street, Vaughn had seen the real thing: brass bands, fire-breathers, a pulse that felt alive. This felt staged.

He’d been to plenty of games in plenty of back rooms to know the difference. Real tables had an edge in the air, a hunger you could taste, men who were there because their rent, their pride, or their lives depended on it. This wasn’t that. This was theater — smoke, cheap props, and a dealer too slick by half.

Said dealer rapped the deck and fanned three cards face-up in the center of the table — the flop.

“Check,” muttered Gray Suit, his voice flat, collar too tight against his throat.

“Two hundred,” Gold Tooth said, smug.

The pot grew. Chips clinked, towers rose. Vaughn felt it; the cards too clean, the shuffles too smooth. The mix of easy banter and half-sarcasm wasn’t hospitality at all — it was the oldest play in the book, the kind of welcome that only lasted as long as you were feeding the table.

He tapped the felt once, then called.

The dealer burned another card, slid out the turn. Music from the stage carried in — a fevered blues line, sharp as broken glass. Through the open deck doors, the Mississippi rolled dark and slow.

The game carried on, chips building and breaking. Vaughn played tight, let himself bleed a little, then pushed in when the timing felt right. His stack should’ve held.

But the river card came down clean and cruel, the exact one Gold Tooth needed. Vaughn leaned back as the pot slid across the table, that lazy grin still stitched across his face even as his chip tower dwindled to nothing.

Gold Tooth raked in the winnings with fat fingers, his laugh echoing against the walls. “Bad luck, Canadian. Tough break.”

Gray Suit chuckled. “You had decent hands.”

Beard & Cap tipped his glass. “Cards didn’t love you, friend. Happens.”

Their words dripped sympathy. Their eyes didn’t.

Gold Tooth leaned in, voice low. “Tell you what. Win it all back — and sweeten the pot.” He thumped a brass alligator on the felt, its jaws frozen in a snarl. “River Queen tradition. Swim from this deck to the far dock. Make it, you get your buy-in and the Gator King trophy. Fail … you’re just another story we tell at the bar.”

Vaughn also leaned in, mimicking Gold Tooth’s posture. “Never was much good at walking from a dare. You got yourself a deal.”

Truth was, he’d never once walked from one. Didn’t matter if it was a stupid bar bet, a rigged hand, or a jump into black water full of teeth — backing down wasn’t in his blood. Every dare was a line in the sand, proof he was alive, proof he could push harder than the next guy. He could feel all eyes on him, waiting for him to flinch, and there was nothing sweeter than disappointing them.

The men rose. “That’s the spirit.”

Beard & Cap patted Vaughn on the shoulder. “Been a while since we had a proper swim. Make it good, friend.”

Gold Tooth smirked. “Better be quick, friend. These waters got eyes.”

“Eyes with teeth,” Grey Suit added.

Vaughn chuckled though inwardly he rolled his eyes. Sure, gators swam these rivers, but not this close to the docks, not with music pounding and half the boat leaning over the rail. They wanted him spooked.

He was reckless, yes, but not stupid. And definitely not suicidal.

They spilled onto the deck, the riverboat’s cheap Halloween lights throwing long shadows on the planks. Phones came out. The waitress in the crooked witch’s hat clutched her tray against her chest, watching wide-eyed. Someone shoved a plastic skeleton aside to clear the railing.

“Empty your pockets,” Gold Tooth said. “Wouldn’t want your fancy Canadian phone feeding the catfish.”

Vaughn hesitated. Gold Tooth held out a wide-brimmed hat as if that solved everything. “House always keeps it safe. You’ll get it back with your prize.”

He tossed in his phone and wallet then turned to the waitress. “You’re my witness, darling. Make sure I get those back.”

Her eyes flicked over his chest as he peeled off his shirt. “With a body like that,” she said, “you’ll swim it easy.”

Vaughn winked. “Then enjoy the show.”

The Mississippi spread black and wide, the dock lights a faint blur across the current. Something splashed below.

He didn’t wait.

He dove.

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Chapter 2

The cold punched him, river water closing over his head. He kicked hard, his arms cutting through mud-thick water, lungs burning. The boat’s halo of light shrank behind him. Halfway across, a ripple curved to his left. He thought he saw a pair of golden eyes gleaming. Panic spiked sharp, but Vaughn bared his teeth and swam harder.

The dock ladder loomed. He lunged for it, but his hands caught a rusted chain instead. The metal tore at his skin, slashed open his forearm. He swore through gritted teeth, hauled anyway, until he reached the ladder, each yank lighting fire into his muscles. He flopped onto the dock, flat on his back, and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

By the time he staggered upright, Gold Tooth and the others had hustled down the gangway, a little parade spilling onto the dock. Someone tossed a faded white towel at him. He caught it one-handed, slinging it over his shoulders. The cloth did nothing for the sting in his arm, but at least it stopped the night air from biting.

“Our Gator King!” Gold Tooth bellowed, raising the brass alligator like a relic. The crowd whooped, phones flashing as he shoved the ugly trophy into Vaughn’s free hand and slapped a wad of damp bills against his chest. “The Canadian who doesn’t scare easy.”

Vaughn held the gator aloft, soaking up the noise. Pride burned hotter than the sting in his arm.

Then a voice cut through the laughter. “He’s bleeding.”

He looked down. Under the dock lights, the red on his arm was unmistakable, streaking down into his hand. Beard & Cap frowned. “River’s filthy. You let that sit, you’ll lose more than the pot.”

A hand clapped Vaughn’s shoulder. “ER’s five minutes out. Come on.”

He tried for a shrug. “Don’t fuss. I’ve had worse.” But the sting spiked sharp, making him wince. He hissed and flexed his fingers. “Fine. Patch me up before I start dripping all over your dock.”

With the brass gator tucked under his arm and the money clutched in his hand, Vaughn let them steer him towards a white sedan that had seen better days. As the car door shut behind him, he let his head tip back against the seat. The brass gator dug into his ribs and his arm burned like hell, but he’d given them a show, hadn’t he? Exactly what they’d wanted — the outsider who jumped, the story they could retell with laughter.

And him? He got the jolt he was after, the rush that made everything sharp and alive. Pain, river, cheers — all of it humming in his veins.

Worth it.

The ride to the hospital blurred past in a wash of headlights and neon. The driver — he never caught his name — leaned over him the whole way, reeking of whiskey and smoke, muttering that the river was “filthy as sin” and that he’d thank them later. Vaughn tightened the towel around his arm, his eyes locked on the gator’s head while streaks of streetlight flickered over its gleaming surface.

By the time they pulled up to the ER bay, the hum of the city was all around them again. The doors hissed open, cold fluorescent light spilling across linoleum. A clerk looked up, unimpressed, as the man who’d driven briefed her in a rush about “chains” and “river water.”

“Possible infection, needs stitches,” the clerk called over her shoulder. Vaughn was waved through to a curtained cubicle, dripping river water onto the floor as he went.

He wasn’t sure how, but he found himself stretched out on a gurney, thin mattress under his back, the curtain pulled half-shut to carve out a square of privacy in the buzzing chaos. The ER smelled like antiseptic and weariness. He could hear the nurses moving at a clip, no time for applause or theatrics. Not his arena. Not his vibe.

The curtain scraped back. A nurse stepped in, brisk and certain, and reached for the gloves on the tray next to the bed. The plastic badge clipped to her scrub pocket flashed in the light: Carrie Vega, RN. Scrubs weren’t meant to flatter, but she wore them with a presence that cut through the hum of the ER.

It wasn’t a gut punch or a whisper of instinct — it never was for him. It was a charge, pure and restless, firing through him like the start of a dare. His shoulders squared before his brain caught up, his body responding to her nearness the way it always did when something — or someone — was about to matter.

“I’m Nurse Vega,” she said, snapping the gloves on. “Let’s get that arm cleaned before you drip half the river on my floor.”

Vaughn’s grin tugged crooked as he leaned back on the gurney. “Tell me you come with the stitches, Carrie, and I’ll start collecting scars.”

She didn’t even pause in tearing open a sterile pad. “As I said, it’s Nurse Vega. How exactly did you manage to get yourself half-drowned and bleeding on the eve of Halloween?”

“Poker game on a floating casino. Lost big, but they’ve got this tradition. You swim to the far dock, you get your buy-in back. Gator trophy, too.” He lifted the brass alligator where it grinned from the counter. “So I dove, beat the river, made it out. Crowd went wild.”

Carrie arched a brow, unimpressed. “So you risked infection, stitches, and possibly your life for… pocket change and a tacky souvenir?” She reached for gauze, voice brisk. “Congratulations. You’re exactly the kind of patient who keeps me working double shifts.”

For a heartbeat he just stared at her, the sting in his arm suddenly less sharp than the one she’d delivered with a single line. His smile widened.

Fine. She wanted him to fold? He’d raise.

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Chapter 3

Carrie tugged the tray closer, the antiseptic smell sharp. The man on the gurney leaned back like he owned the place, towel slipping off his shoulders, that ridiculous brass alligator perched on the counter beside him as if it were the crown jewels. His forearm sported a jagged gash, still bleeding sluggishly, streaks of water darkening the sheet beneath him.

Another daredevil. Another fool. And damn it, a handsome one.

Broad shoulders, lean muscle, river water clinging to a chest that belonged in a fitness ad, not on her gurney. Copper hair damp and messy, eyes a blue too bright to ignore. He looked like trouble gift-wrapped in muscle and mischief.

She pressed gauze hard against the wound. He hissed, grinning through it anyway. “That’s the welcome?”

“Hold still,” she said. “You want this cleaned, not shredded.”

He tilted his head. “Don’t worry. I’m in capable hands.”

Carrie ignored the line and reached for saline. “How exactly did this happen? Front desk said something about rusty chains?”

He chuckled, wincing when the cold hit his skin. “Dock ladder was right there, but when you’ve got people yelling about gators, you don’t exactly take your time. I grabbed the first thing in reach. It happened to be a chain. Didn’t care what it did to me so long as I was out of the water first.”

Carrie stared at him, incredulous. “So you weren’t joking before? You really jumped into the Mississippi at night. On a dare.”

“Better than disappointing the crowd,” he said easily. “And hey—better the chain than a gator.”

She stopped, gauze pressed tight, eyes narrowing. “Do you have a death wish?”

The grin vanished. “Not even close. I don’t play to die, sweetheart. I play because the risk reminds me I’m alive.”

The words punched at her chest, too familiar, too sharp. Dad’s voice, almost the same, just before everything fell apart. She swallowed the memory down and reached for the suture kit.

“Hold still.”

The needle pierced, clean and efficient. He drew in a breath but didn’t flinch, watching her as though even the pain was something to smile at. Carrie set each stitch with practiced precision, the thread pulling the torn edges neatly together. One, two, three. The gash tightened under her hands, his skin raw but no longer gaping.

She tied off the last stitch then stripped her gloves and went for a new pair.

“You’ll need a shot,” she said. “That chain wasn’t just filthy, it was rusted. You’ll need a tetanus booster—Tdap. Lasts about ten years.”

He smirked. “Better than rabies, right?”

Carrie didn’t blink. “Better than lockjaw.”

He tilted his head, grin crooked. “Lockjaw sounds kinky. Careful, or I’ll start thinking you’ve got a wild side.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth almost betrayed her. “You’ll get the shot, or you’ll regret it.”

Carrie stepped out, came back a minute later with the dose and a syringe, tugged the tray closer. “Arm,” she ordered.

The man lifted his arm obligingly. “Sure this isn’t punishment for flirting?”

The needle was quick and practiced. “All done,” she said. “One less excuse to end up back here.” She stripped her gloves and got hold of a chart. “Full name?”

“Vaughn Meyers. Canadian export. No refund policy.”

She wrote it down, lips pressed thin. “Date of birth?”

“October twenty-eighth, nineteen ninety-seven,” he said, raising his brows. “Two days ago. Spent it bungee jumping outside Nashville. Figured I’d start the year with a drop before heading down here.”

Carrie arched a brow. “At this rate, you won’t have too many birthdays ahead. Not if you treat life like it’s a dare you can’t say no to.”

Vaughn chuckled. “Better that than watching it pass me by.”

Her pen stilled when the date she had just written clicked. One week after her own birthday. One year younger than her but not too young to know better.

But she did. She recognized the chart behind that date as the Gate following her own in the mandala. Gate 28 in his Personality Sun. Risk. Purpose in the brink. Her own father’s Sun gate. The energy that had led to her family falling apart.

Carrie forced her pen to move, the paper crinkling under her grip. No wonder he grins at danger. No wonder I felt that pull. She shoved the thought down and kept her tone cool. “Address?”

“Vancouver.” He rattled on his full address.

“Emergency contact?”

“None. Traveling light.”

Of course he was.

“Phone number?”

“Glad you asked,” Vaughn said, smiling wide as he leaned a little closer. “Maybe I’ll even answer when you call.” He dictated it slowly, like he expected her to memorize it.

Carrie clipped the chart closed. “Okay, we’re done. Keep those stitches dry, and if you feel feverish, you come back. Otherwise, don’t let me see you again.”

“Hey, don’t be like that. Got a poker tournament here tomorrow. I intended to leave after that, but I just found a reason to extend my stay.” He pushed himself up on the gurney, sheet slipping to his waist, the movement all casual. “Maybe you could be my tour guide. I’m pretty sure you know better spots than brochures.”

Carrie’s brow arched. “My only tour is from triage to discharge. Congratulations, you’ve just reached the exit.”

Vaughn threw his head back and laughed, the sound rolling out rich and warm. It vibrated through her chest before she could stop it, something low in her body sparking in answer even as her mind bristled against it.

She straightened, gathering the tray with practiced precision. “Enjoy the city, Mr. Meyers. Try not to bleed in it again.”

And with that, Carrie swept the curtain aside, leaving him behind with his stitched arm, his brass gator, and that laugh still echoing in her ribs.

The night air wrapped around her as Carrie stepped out of the hospital, a sticky mix of river damp and late-October warmth. Halloween Eve in New Orleans didn’t sleep. The streets throbbed with life — tourists in feathered masks and locals draped in beads weaving between food stalls and fortune tellers. Laughter and brass tangled in the humid air as a jazz trio played from a balcony, their trumpets answering the shouts of revelers below. Paper skeletons swayed from wrought-iron rails, and somewhere down the block, a street performer in ghostly white paint offered tarot cards for tips. The whole city buzzed like it knew the veil was thin and no one wanted to miss what might slip through. Five blocks to her place; it was the walk she always took after shift, the only way to clear the adrenaline hum of the ER.

By the time she reached her apartment, her shoulders had loosened, but her thoughts hadn’t.

Her key clicked in the lock, and the moment she opened the door a ginger tabby waddled out from the couch, tail flicking in lazy greeting. Carrie bent to scoop him up, his warm weight settling into her arms with a rumbling purr.

“Hey, Rusty,” she murmured, rubbing behind his ears. He leaned his head against her chin, content as ever. Chubby, ginger, self-satisfied — he reminded her uncomfortably of Vaughn Meyers. She shook her head at herself. Seriously, Vega. One handsome patient and you’re making cat comparisons?

She set Rusty down and started her routine: scrub top into the laundry, hair twisted into a messy knot, kettle on. Her body wanted nothing but sleep, but her brain still thrummed with the day — stitches, laughter, blue eyes too bright under fluorescent lights.

The phone buzzed on the counter. Ben, his name neat and solid on the screen. The lawyer. One date, pleasant enough. He’d opened doors, asked her questions, walked her home like a gentleman. Reliable. Safe. Everything her rational mind said she should want.

She swiped to answer. “Ben.”

“Carrie, hey.” His voice was warm, easy. “Listen, a friend of mine has tickets to that haunted mansion party tomorrow night. Thought you might like to come along.”

She glanced at the kettle steaming, the quiet of her apartment, Rusty circling her ankles. Every part of her body screamed no — she was bone-tired, and the idea of costumes and crowds made her temples throb.

“I don’t know,” she began. “I’ve been working doubles all week—”

“Oh, come on. You deserve a break,” Ben said. “It’s at the old Beaumont Mansion. They’re hosting the Crescent City Poker Classic. All the pros fly in, serious players. Even if you don’t like poker, there’s a whole party going on. It’ll be fun.”

Carrie had almost declined again, but the words Crescent City Poker Classic lodged somewhere low in her chest.

He said he had a tournament on Halloween.

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “I’ll come.”

Her eyes closed, and there it was: Vaughn’s grin, cocky and alive. Careful, or I’ll start thinking you’ve got a wild side. She could still hear it, that ridiculous line about lockjaw, the laugh that did things to her she hadn’t felt in years.

“Great. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight?”

“No, it’s not far from my place. I’ll find you there,” she said, trying to sound casual, though something inside her already felt wide awake.

As she clicked off the kitchen light, her mind was already running through Halloween costumes. When was the last time she’d actually cared about dressing up instead of just throwing on a mask and a wig to tag along with friends?

And why, of all things, did her mind flash an image of the costume her friend Abby had worn last year — the one that had turned heads everywhere they went?

Maybe because a poker game needed its Queen of Hearts. Before she let herself think too hard about it, she scrolled through her phone to find Abby’s number.

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Chapter 4

The mansion’s doors creaked open to a swell of laughter and candlelight. Carrie hesitated on the threshold, the hum of conversation spilling out like smoke, thick with perfume, bourbon, and pumpkin spice.

Cobwebs stretched across the banisters, glass chandeliers dripped with imitation wax, and from the main hall, bass-heavy EDM pulsed through the air — the kind of beat that shook the crystal and made conversation pointless. Carrie felt the vibration under her heels, the rhythm pressing at her temples.

She took one step inside, then another, the heels of her boots tapping against the old marble floor. Heads turned. Eyes followed.

Her Queen of Hearts costume had seemed a good idea — a playful nod to Vaughn’s world of cards, a small rebellion against her usual scrubs and sensible sweaters. But now the outfit felt like a dare.

The corset hugged tighter than she remembered; the high-cut front split just enough to flash the red-and-black checkered thigh-high stockings, each leg a mirrored pattern. Black fabric framed her legs like a split cape, crimson hearts stitched along the edges that swayed with every step, and the little crown perched on her head felt like a spotlight she hadn’t asked for.

She told herself it was just the fabric brushing against her skin, the change of air — but no, she could feel the eyes on her. Appraising. Curious. A few admiring.

What am I doing here?

She caught sight of Ben across the room near the bar, surrounded by three men in tailored suits and half-worn masks. He was laughing too loudly, a half-empty glass in his hand. When his gaze landed on her, his eyes widened, and something about it made her stomach dip.

Because now the truth landed hard.

She hadn’t dressed like this for Ben.

She’d never felt that flutter of excitement around him — not when they’d met by chance at the café near the hospital, not even on the one polite dinner date where conversation had just skimmed. Ben had been easy, predictable, safe. The kind of man she could plan a future with on paper, but not one who made her pulse quicken just by standing too close.

The thrill that had pushed her toward scarlet and lace was about the man who’d jumped into an alligator river on a dare and walked out grinning.

Whatever that said about her, Carrie knew enough about Human Design to recognize when her energy was speaking. Her Sacral wasn’t subtle tonight; it hummed low and steady, a quiet pull toward whatever waited next.

Let’s see how this night plays out, she thought, straightening her spine and heading toward Ben.

His eyes flicked from her cleavage to her legs — a slow, assessing slide that made her skin crawl.

Without any preamble, he caught her wrist and lifted her arm like he was inspecting merchandise. “Wow, Carrie. You came out to play, didn’t you?”

His breath reeked of alcohol.

“Hey, Ben,” one of his friends slurred from a nearby chair, face flushed and glossy with sweat. “This girl’s a stunner. Why’d you say she was mid?”

Heat surged into her cheeks — humiliation which soon was beaten down by anger.

Ben turned sharply, the motion jerky. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he snapped, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “If I ever said that, it wasn’t about Carrie. Look at her!” He yanked her arm, trying to twirl her like a showpiece, twisting instead of turning her.

“Ouch!” She pulled free, rubbing her wrist. “You’re hurting me. How much have you had to drink?”

He blinked theatrically. “Some. Not a lot. You were late.”

“Shift ran late,” she shot back. “Too many drunk idiots wrapping cars around poles tonight. Someone has to patch them up.”

Ben threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer than she wanted. “Fellas,” he said to the two men behind him, “this is Carrie. Nurse Carrie. She laves lives for a living.” He frowned. “She saves lives.”

The one in the skull mask gave a low whistle. “Lucky patients.”

His friend, wearing devil horns that listed to one side, chuckled. “Think she makes house calls? I could use a little of that bedside care.”

Ben scoffed. “You two wish. She’s mine tonight.”

Show me your friends… Carrie thought.

The skull mask leaned back, leering. “You sharing, Ben? Don’t keep all the fun for yourself.”

Ben smirked, as if the suggestion were a compliment instead of an insult.

That did it. She stepped back. “You’re not yourself tonight, Ben. Maybe it’s better if I go.”

He caught her hand again, voice suddenly pleading. “No, no, c’mon. I just… let loose a bit. I know what. Let’s get some air. Out on the terrace.”

She hesitated. The bass still reverberated faintly through the marble and glass, laughter spilled from the bar. The air inside was thick with heat and noise — maybe the cool night would sober him up.

Maybe she’d find her footing there, too.

She’d promised herself she’d follow her gut tonight, let life play out a little, trust the bigger current that had brought her here. But that didn’t mean ignoring the warning flutter now low in her belly. There was a difference between saying yes to the night and saying yes to everything in it.

The terrace wrapped around the mansion, its railing strung with flickering orange lights. Couples leaned into shadows, their laughter soft, intimate. Ben steered her toward the far end, where the light dimmed and no one lingered.

“I can’t get over how gorgeous you look,” he murmured, eyes glassy. “Where’ve you been hiding those legs?”

His hand slid from the edge of her stocking to the bare skin above. Carrie shoved it away.

“Are you out of your mind? Stop.” She turned to leave. “I’m going back inside.”

He didn’t budge. Didn’t hear her or didn’t care. Instead, he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her against the wall, his mouth finding her neck.

“Ben!” Her voice cracked. She shoved hard, adrenaline flooding her. He stumbled back hitting the railing with a startled grunt.

Before she could process it, a dark figure stepped from the shadows and grabbed Ben from the lapel of his jacket.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the man asked, his voice a low growl.

Her breath caught, but somewhere beneath the shock, something in her stilled when her mind said run.

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Chapter 5

A gloved hand twisted Ben’s arm behind his back. “Are you deaf?” The voice was low, calm, edged with command. “The lady said stop. Simple enough.”

“Let me go!” Ben struggled. “She’s my date!”

“You got that wrong, buddy,” the masked man said evenly. “You’re her date. And she’s done.”

With that, he shoved Ben toward the doorway. They passed under the terrace lights — and copper glinted beneath the brim of the black hat.

No. It couldn’t be—

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. Vaughn?

She followed him inside just in time to see the caped man steer a stumbling Ben through the mansion’s front doors and slam them shut. She glanced at his friends. They were too far gone to notice anything.

For a second, she stood frozen, breath shallow. Then the man returned, removing his hat and mask.

It was Vaughn. And he wasn’t smiling. The reckless gleam was gone; in its place, quiet intensity.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentle now. His fingers brushed her elbow. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she managed. “Just… a little whiplashed.” She exhaled, still trying to catch up. “What are you doing here?”

He ran a hand through his hair, hat dangling from the other. “There’s a poker tournament upstairs — the Crescent City Poker Classic. I think I told you about it. Starts any minute.” He glanced at Ben’s friends who were pointing at a hanging skeleton and cackling like lunatics. “I was coming down for a soda when I saw you walk in. My lungs kind of forgot how to work after that. Then I saw that idiot grab you, and—well, here we are. Are you really dating him?”

“We’ve been out once,” she said, shaking her head. “He seemed harmless.”

“Yeah?” Vaughn tilted his head. “Harmless guys don’t usually treat Queens like props.”

Carrie looked down at herself, suddenly aware of the high slit in her skirt. She tried to tug the sides together. “I overdid it. I don’t know why. Should’ve known better.”

Vaughn caught her hands before she could fold them away. “Don’t ever think that,” he said quietly. “A man’s behavior says everything about him — not about you. You’ve got every right to show up however you damn well please. For the record, you’re stunning as a Queen. But between us? While the Queen rules over Hearts…” his mouth curved, “…Nurse Vega steals them, hands down.”

Despite herself, she smiled. The unexpected validation hit somewhere deep. But two could play that game. “Well, Zorro,” she said, brows arched, “I’d also say that you clean up impressively for someone who was dripping river water in my ER yesterday.”

He laughed. “The stitches are holding, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Her gaze flicked to his arm before she could stop it. “I was, actually. Any pain?”

“Nope. I’ve been following orders and been on my best behavior.” He nodded toward the bar. “Come on, Queen of Hearts. You look like you could use a drink.”

He didn’t touch her this time, just gestured toward the bar and fell into step beside her. The respect in that distance warmed her more than any flirtation.

“What’ll you have?” he asked once they reached the counter.

Carrie eyed the neon slurpees lined up behind the bar. “Are those spiked?”

The bartender, painted up like a ghoul, shook his head.

“I’ll take a strawberry one, then,” she said.

“Make it two,” Vaughn added.

She glanced at him. “Nothing stronger before a tournament?”

“You mean alcohol? Nah, doesn’t agree with me.”

She blinked. Most of her memories of her father were soaked in liquor — the shouting, the crashes, the promises that evaporated by morning. The man beside her, this risk-taker who refused to dull his edges, was nothing like that. Maybe she’d been wrong to typecast him just because of his chart and her personal experience with her father.

People weren’t only patterns; they were choices.

The ghoul slid two cups across the counter.

“You’ll probably say no,” Vaughn said, “but how about coming upstairs for the game? I’ve got a feeling tonight’s lucky.”

Carrie took a sip of her slurpee, letting the icy sweetness calm the heat still in her chest.

“Vaughn, thank you,” she said softly. “It’s not that I couldn’t handle Ben, but I was blindsided. You stepping in was … a relief.”

“No thanks needed.” His grin returned, easy again. “You patched me up yesterday. Consider us even.”

She tilted her head. “You’re different tonight.”

He tapped his chest where the sword belt crossed. “It’s the Zorro effect. Man in black, on a mission.”

Carrie laughed — really laughed, the sound bubbling out before she could stop it.

“Okay, Zorro,” she said, offering her arm. “Let’s go show them how poker’s played.”

He took her arm, warm and steady, and together they climbed the winding staircase to the first floor.

Carrie told herself she was only curious, but something in her whispered that curiosity wasn’t the whole truth.

Because as they reached the top of the stairs and the double doors to the poker hall opened wide, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this night, this gamble, was about to change the stakes for both of them.

---

Chapter 6

The poker hall smelled of polished wood, bourbon, and ambition slicked with cologne. Chandeliers hung low, scattering light across the velvet tables like coins dropped in water. Every chair was already filled, every gaze turning as he and Carrie crossed the threshold.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” someone drawled near the center table. “You planning to play, Meyers, or just charm the audience?”

Laughter rippled. Vaughn smiled, but the muscle in his jaw ticked once. He could take the jabs, but the way their eyes slid past him to Carrie — hungry, appraising — lit a quieter fuse.

She met the attention with poise, chin high, her Queen-of-Hearts crown catching the light like defiance itself. She held her posture like royalty, but her fingers curled slightly against her glass — a tell Vaughn knew too well.

He rested a hand lightly at the small of her back, voice calm but carrying.
“Eyes on the cards, boys. You’ll need them if you plan on keeping your chips.”

That drew a few laughs too, but this time they landed differently; less smug, more respectful.

He guided Carrie toward a side alcove where the shadows thinned the noise — a half-lit bar framed by carved mirrors and dusted bottles. The bartender polished a glass, wisely pretending not to stare.

“You good here?” Vaughn asked, leaning close so she could hear him over the raucus. “It’ll get loud once the game starts.”

She nodded. “Go win something.”

He turned to go, but her hand caught his. Her fingers were warm, firm, unexpectedly grounding. When he looked back, she was smiling — the kind of smile that steadied more than it tempted.

“Good luck, Zorro,” she murmured, and brushed her lips against his cheek. “From the Queen of Hearts.”

For a second, the world went still. Then his grin curved slow.

“Careful,” he said softly. “That’s how legends start.”

He let her hand slip from his and crossed the room.

By the time he reached the table, his body had already shifted into that quiet place where everything narrowed: cards, tells, patterns. The noise of the mansion faded to a hum beneath the pulse in his ears. He wasn’t here for the rush tonight — not only. He was close now, close to the number he’d been chasing for three years. Enough to buy that stretch of land outside Vancouver where his parents could finally breathe clean air, plant apple trees, maybe build the little farmhouse his mother kept sketching in her notebooks.

Every bet, every bluff was another fencepost in the ground.

He dropped into his seat. The felt beneath his fingers was smooth, the deck waiting. Around him, the players were already in motion.

“Buy-in’s ten grand,” the dealer said.

Vaughn slid his stack forward without flinching. “Let’s deal.”

The first cards hit the felt. The rhythm took him — the shuffle, the burn, the turn of each decision. Around him, laughter swelled and ebbed, glasses clinked, music pulsed faintly through the floor. But his focus tunneled down to breath and numbers.

He caught Carrie’s reflection in the bar mirror across the room, half-hidden by shadows, watching him with an expression that was part pride, part curiosity.

His grin ghosted across his lips before he masked it again, fingers drumming once against the felt.

All right, Queen of Hearts. Let’s make this count.

The game had stretched into its final orbit — four players left, stacks high, sweat glinting under the chandelier’s heat. The air in the room had changed; even the music downstairs felt distant now, muffled by the drum of focus.

Derrick Lang, the oil heir from Houston, cracked his knuckles. “You’re one stubborn son of a gun, Meyers. Fold already and let the rest of us breathe.”

“Why rush a good story?” Vaughn said mildly, eyes on the river card.

Sloan leaned back, one corner of her mouth curving. “Or maybe he’s just allergic to losing. Canadians are polite until money’s involved.” The blonde pro from Miami had a shark smile and long red nails that drummed when she smelled weakness.

Her quip drew a low chuckle from Jules Navarro, who’d barely spoken all night. “He’s not polite. He’s patient. There’s a difference.” The former Marine’s voice was quiet but carried weight, the kind that made people listen.

The dealer flicked the final card, and everything stilled — heartbeat, air, even thought. Vaughn saw the pattern line up in a blink.

Full house. Queens over tens.

Carrie’s mirror reflection flashed across the table’s edge. She was watching him, hands clasped near her chest. His lips didn’t slide into a smile, not yet. He only met her eyes, calm and steady, as he pushed his stack forward. “All in.”

Lang cursed under his breath. Sloan hesitated, nails drumming. Navarro studied him a beat longer, then sighed and folded. “Can’t call perfection.”

Cards hit the table. Groans, curses, then the inevitable cheer as the dealer announced, “Pot goes to Meyers.”

Applause scattered around the room. Vaughn exhaled, the grin finally breaking loose. He shook hands where it was offered, nodding to Lang’s rueful, “Hell of a game, man,” and Sloan’s smirk that almost looked impressed.

He looked over to the bar just in time to see Carrie lift her drink high and mime a bow. Her eyes were alight, bright as the chandelier’s fire. For a heartbeat, everything else vanished — the room, the noise, the crowd. Just her, radiant, proud.

Then the doors crashed open.

The sound cut through the noise like a blade, the laughter instantly dying. A man stumbled in — flushed, wild-eyed, his shirt half untucked.

Ben.

His beady eyes zeroed in on Carrie.

He wasn’t done with her yet. Not by a long shot.

Chapter 7

“Who the hell—?” someone started, but Ben’s voice cut through the din, ragged and loud.

“There you are!” He pointed at Carrie, his finger trembling. “Who do you think you are? You humiliate me in front of my friends, make me look like a joke—”

“Ben, stop,” Carrie said rising, palms out. “You’re drunk. Go home.”

He lurched toward her and grabbed her wrist. “Not till we talk.”

He didn’t take another step. Vaughn was on him in three strides. He caught Ben by the collar, slammed him against the paneled wall hard enough to rattle the sconces. Gasps rippled across the room.

“You need to walk out of here,” Vaughn said, voice low and cold. “Right now. Before you regret every breath that brought you in.”

Recognition flickered in Ben’s eyes. “You,” he spat. “You think you can touch me again? What are you, her bodyguard now?”

Vaughn didn’t blink. “Just the guy keeping you from making a bigger fool of yourself.”

He released him with a shove, stepping back. “Leave.”

Ben staggered, straightened his jacket with shaking hands — and pulled a gun from the inside pocket.

The crowd froze. The air thickened.

“Back off!” Ben shouted, waving the pistol. His hand wobbled, sweat slicking the metal. “She’s coming with me!”

“Ben.” Vaughn’s tone was calm now, measured. “Listen to me. Put it down. You had too much to drink, and you don’t want to—”

Carrie moved closer, voice steady but soft. “Ben, please. No one’s against you. Just put the gun down.”

Her voice reached him, but so did her nearness. His eyes flared. “You stay away from him!”

Vaughn saw the twitch before the sound. He lunged toward her.

The gun went off.

A deafening crack split the room. The bullet missed him by inches, slamming into the wall — and right through the copper pipe that fed the bar’s decorative gas lanterns.

For a second, nothing. Then a hiss. The sharp scent of fuel.

Someone screamed, “Gas!”

The next instant, flame.

The lantern flared and burst, shards of glass spraying. The cheap drapes caught like dry paper, a rush of orange racing up the wall. People shouted, chairs toppled, the dealer’s table flipped. Vaughn grabbed Carrie, dragging her down behind the nearest overturned table as heat roared above them.

“Stay low!” he shouted, shielding her with his body as sparks rained down.

A second explosion — smaller, sharper — blew the bar mirror apart. Bottles ignited, spilling fire across the floor. Panic surged. Guests scrambled for the terrace doors, tripping over each other in their desperation. A Lady Godiva wig had caught fire. Someone’s pirate sleeve too.

Carrie’s voice was hoarse. “The fire extinguisher — behind the bar!”

Vaughn crawled through the smoke, arm stinging where glass had grazed him. He vaulted the counter, found the red canister, yanked the pin, and aimed. The blast of white foam swallowed the worst of the flames climbing the curtain.

“More over here!” Carrie called, beating at sparks with a velvet tablecloth. He passed the extinguisher to her, then grabbed a discarded jacket to smother another flare near the window.

The heat surged from the entrance where the first blast had hit, fire licking up the curtains near the main doors and swallowing half the bar. Exiting the room from there was out of the question. The terrace doors were inevitably thrown open, a flood of bodies tripping, trying to push through.

Carrie’s voice sliced through the noise. “Everyone away from the fire! If you’re burned, sit down — don’t run. And do not crowd that balcony!”

But panic had already set in. The balcony groaned under the weight — then a scream tore through the smoke. “Someone fell!”

Carrie froze for half a breath. “We need to get down there!”

Vaughn was beside her, using the same jacket to smother a patch of flame creeping up the drape. Sloan, barefoot from kicking off her heels, appeared at his side with a champagne bucket, dousing the corner of the fire with melted ice. Derrick Lang dragged down another curtain, slamming it over a burning table.

They didn’t speak, just moved; each taking a patch of chaos and beating it back. When Carrie turned to check one side of the room, Vaughn was already covering the other. Jules Navarro, calm as if he were still at the table, used a Batman cape to smother a flare near the entrance.

Within minutes the blaze was shrinking, beaten into submission by a ragtag team of gamblers turned firefighters.

“Call the hospital,” Vaughn told Carrie, his breath ragged.

“Already on it.” Her fingers flew over her phone. “Beaumont Mansion — gas leak and fire, multiple injuries.” She shot him a quick look. “Police too.”

He was already dialing. “Yeah, this is Vaughn Meyers at the Beaumont Mansion — explosion during the poker tournament. Send fire and police now. A bullet struck the gas line behind the bar — ruptured it clean. That’s what triggered the explosion.” His eyes swept the room. “We’ve got people down. We’re handling what we can.”

He hung up, coughing hard. The air shimmered with heat. A man stumbled nearby, dazed and bleeding from the temple. Vaughn caught him by the arm, steering him toward the open windows.

“You’re okay, pal. Just breathe—” He stopped short.

It was Ben. The gun hung slack in his hand, his eyes glassy with shock.

“Easy,” Vaughn said. He took the weapon from him carefully, checking the safety. “Stay by the window. Help’s coming.”

Make that the police.

His own trousers had no pockets. Vaughn glanced around, then handed the weapon to Jules, who wrapped it in a handkerchief and slipped it inside his jacket.

The flames near the main doors were finally dying under the combined effort of players and staff; the stairway beyond smoked but held clear.

“Downstairs — it’s open!” someone shouted.

Vaughn sought Carrie’s gaze. Neither hesitated. Vaughn vaulted over an overturned chair still smoldering at the leg, landed hard, and checked that the steps below weren’t on fire. “Clear path!” he called back, offering his hand to Carrie who was right behind him.

She grabbed it without pause, her palm warm against his soot-streaked one, and together they sprinted down the marble steps and out into the cooler night air.

The man who had fallen from the balcony lay sprawled in a bed of crushed azaleas, groaning. His leg twisted at a wrong angle, blood pooling under the torn fabric.

Carrie was on her knees beside him in seconds. “Don’t move,” she said. “Possible fracture. Vaughn, I need light.”

He crouched across from her, his cell phone’s torch steady in his hand. “You got it.”

She worked with quick, practiced precision checking pulses, steadying the leg, tearing a strip from her costume’s skirt to bind the wound. Vaughn held the man’s shoulders, murmuring low reassurances while she worked.

Sirens wailed in the distance, closing fast. The sound was the sweetest thing he’d heard all night.

When the paramedics flooded in, Carrie briefed them, no wasted words. Vaughn stepped back, letting them lift the man onto the stretcher, pride settling low in his chest. She hadn’t cracked once. Not when the fire hit, not now.

Before either of them spoke, a shout drew their attention toward the driveway. Two officers were leading Ben toward a patrol car, his jacket askew, the gun sealed in an evidence bag. His face was pale now, eyes unfocused, mouth moving without sound until the words finally spilled out, broken and bewildered.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “What happened? I just wanted to talk…”

Carrie stood very still beside Vaughn, her hand finding his without thought, fingers lacing through his. He tightened his grip, steady and sure — a silent I got you.

They both watched as they eased Ben into the car. The man looked hollow, already sobering into regret he’d have to live with.

“That,” Vaughn said quietly, “is why I don’t touch liquor. Makes people forget who they are.”

Carrie exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing at last. “Yeah,” she murmured. “And makes the rest of us remember.”

By the time the ambulances pulled away, the mansion’s grandeur had dimmed under flashing red and blue. A uniformed officer pulled Vaughn aside, notebook in hand. “You’re Vaughn Meyers? The one who called it in?”

Vaughn nodded, giving a concise rundown — the fight, the gun, the chaos. Carrie hovered nearby, arms folded tight, as she inevitably answered questions as well.

“Appreciate both of you for your cooperation,” the officer said, closing his notebook. “We will probably follow for more details.”

Vaughn inclined his head, then glanced at Carrie just in time to see her notice the blood trickling down his forearm again.

“You’re bleeding again,” she said softly.

He made a quick fist pump, low and sharp. “Yay! More stitches from Nurse Vega.”

She sighed. “It’s inevitable, what can I say?”

He gave a mock salute. “I’m on.”

She hesitated, then added, “My place is closer than the hospital. I’ve got supplies there.”

He blinked, surprised by the invitation but caught the tone — practical, not personal. Still, something inside him sparked warmth. “Sounds good.”

He fell into step beside her as they left the mansion behind, its windows flickering with the last traces of blue light. She didn’t speak, and neither did he. There was nothing to say yet — only the hum of shared silence and the echo of what they’d just survived.

---

Chapter 8

Midnight draped itself over New Orleans in flickers of orange and shadow. The streets pulsed with leftover life — music spilling from half-empty bars, clusters of costumed stragglers laughing too loudly, their voices echoing through alleys lined with wrought-iron balconies and sagging cobweb decorations. Pumpkins still glowed on stoops, their candles burned low, while a humid breeze carried the mixed scent of sugar and smoke. Nearby, three jazz players in vampire capes leaned into their instruments beneath a flickering streetlamp, their music threading through noise and laughter.

Vaughn walked beside Carrie, the noise fading as they turned toward quieter streets. Carrie watched him as they walked, the night air cooling her flushed cheeks. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What happened back there at the Beaumont Mansion…” She hesitated for a beat. “Was that another kind of rush for you? The chaos, the risk — did it give you that same hit you chase at the tables?”

He shook his head. “No. No. When someone’s safety’s at stake, it’s not adrenaline — it’s purpose. You just know what you have to do, and you do it.”

She nodded. “I figured as much. Makes sense for someone with Gate 27 in their Personality Earth.”

He glanced over, amused. “Gate 27? Did you look up some sort of astrology chart?” The question came low, edged with suggestion. Like he’d caught her caring more than she meant to show.

Her mouth curved, the look she gave him measured but sure. “There’s a time and a place,” she said evenly. “For now, let’s focus on those stitches.”

By the time they reached her apartment, the adrenaline had finally begun to ebb, leaving her limbs shaky and her thoughts too loud. She unlocked the door, half-aware of how surreal it felt to bring him home like this — still in her Queen of Hearts costume, crown long gone, corset laced tight against smoke-stained skin.

She almost laughed at the absurdity. A nurse, a poker player, a near fire, and now this.

The moment the door opened, Rusty padded out from the shadows with a questioning mrrr. The ginger cat stopped mid-stretch when he saw Vaughn, gave a brief sniff and, to her surprise, head-butted his shin in instant approval.

“He’s not this friendly with anyone new,” she said with a smile. “Must be a ginger solidarity thing.”

Vaughn crouched, rubbing the cat’s neck with his uninjured hand. “Or maybe we’ve got more in common than that,” he said quietly. “A weakness for the same human, for starters.”

Carrie felt heat rising to her cheeks. The line shouldn’t have hit as deep as it did, but that quiet conviction in his voice stayed with her as she turned away. “Yeah, keep him busy. I’ll get my kit.”

She retreated into the bathroom, the bright light making her blink. One look in the mirror stopped her cold. Soot streaked across her cheeks, mascara smudged, lipstick long gone. The Queen of Hearts looked more like a scarecrow who’d lost the battle.

With a sharp breath, she grabbed a washcloth, scrubbing away the grime. The cool water steadied her pulse. By the time she’d washed her face and cleaned her hands, she looked less like a disaster and more like herself—tired, yes, but alive.

He said he had a weakness for me.

Shaking her head to focus on the task at hand, she took the small suture kit from the cabinet and stepped back into the living room. Vaughn was still on the floor with Rusty, the cat stretched luxuriously across his thighs, paw batting lazily at the edge of his sleeve.

“You should wash up too,” she said, soft but practical. “Bathroom’s right there.”

He rose smoothly. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Carrie set the kit on the coffee table and drifted into the kitchen space, unable to stand still. The quiet of the apartment pressed close — too quiet after sirens and shouting.

She opened the fridge and spotted the container of ajiaco soup she’d made the day before. Her mother’s recipe, thick with chicken and potatoes and corn. Something about its familiarity and its tie to her parents’ homeland felt like a lifeline. She grabbed a pot and turned on the burner.

“Are you hungry?” she called toward the bathroom. “I’ve got some ajiaco left—it’s a Colombian soup. Chicken, potatoes, corn on the cob, a little cream; comfort food, basically.”

“I’d love to try it,” he called back, voice muffled by running water.

She poured the soup into the pot and stirred, the spoon clinking gently against the sides. When he emerged a few minutes later — hair damp, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, skin clean except for the stitched arm — she found herself talking too much.

“It’s one of those soups that tastes even better the next day,” she said, gesturing with the spoon. “The flavors kind of marry overnight — sorry, that’s such a weird cooking term — and it’s supposed to bring good luck if you eat it after a long night. My mom swears by it.”

Vaughn leaned against the counter, watching her quietly. “Carrie,” he said after a pause, his voice low. “Are you sure me being here isn’t too much? After everything tonight?”

The question stopped her mid-stir.

He wasn’t wrong to ask. They’d barely known each other forty-eight hours, and he’d just witnessed her world catch fire — literally. But the sincerity in his eyes was simply permission to draw a line if she needed one.

She set the spoon down and turned to face him. “You’ve done nothing but show up the right way all night,” she said softly. “I really want you here.”

Something eased in his expression — just a subtle shift, like a knot untying.

“Okay,” he said simply.

The soup began to bubble, fragrant and familiar. Carrie motioned toward a chair. “Sit. Let’s fix that arm before you start bleeding into my dinner.”

He laughed quietly and obeyed, stretching his arm across the table while she knelt beside him, unrolling gauze and thread. The warmth of the kitchen surrounded them, soft and steady. Outside, the city hummed, but inside, there was only the hiss of the stove and the quiet rhythm of two people who’d stopped running.

Carrie’s stitches were quick — neat, efficient. Vaughn barely flinched, watching her hands instead of the needle, as if memorizing the calm precision in every motion.
“There,” she said, taping the gauze in place. “Good as new. Try not to pick any more fights with furniture or bullets.”

He chuckled, flexing his fingers. “No promises.”

A few minutes later, the soup was ready. They sat opposite each other at her small kitchen table, bowls steaming between them. The warmth and quiet felt unreal after the night’s chaos.

“This is incredible,” Vaughn said after the first spoonful. “I didn’t know comfort food could taste like … relief.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Carrie replied. “It’s supposed to heal things you can’t put a bandage on.”

They ate in companionable silence for a while before she asked, “What will you do with the money you won?”

He leaned back, thoughtful. “It’s going toward a farm outside Vancouver. My parents’ dream. They always wanted land — something quiet. I’ve been saving from every tournament, and tonight might’ve pushed me close.”

His smile was unexpectedly shy. “They’ve given me everything, and I wasn’t the easiest kid to raise. I always needed more space than they could offer, always did whatever I set my mind to — but they supported me. They did their best. It feels good to start giving back.”

Warmth expanded in Carrie’s chest. “That sounds perfect.”

He shrugged, finishing his soup, then stood and carried his bowl to the sink. “I should probably go.”

She blinked. “Just like that? You feel unwell?”

He turned the tap on, rinsing the bowl. “Carrie, I feel great — better than I have in years. But ever since I met you, there’s been this pull. After what we went through tonight, it’s ten times stronger. And that’s exactly why I shouldn’t act on it right now.”

The truth in his voice undid her. Her hands curled around her bowl. “If you don’t,” she heard herself say before she could stop, “I’m going to self-combust.”

He stilled. Slowly, he turned, nostrils flaring just slightly as he studied her face. “Do you really mean that?” he asked. “Because adrenaline’s a hell of a drug. I should know. It’s my drug of choice. It makes people think—”

She cut him off, rising. “If anyone here knows how the body reacts to chemicals, it’s me.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then he crossed the distance in two strides.

The kiss found her mid-breath, hot and ragged, and everything that had been contained all night poured through it: gratitude, relief, raw attraction. His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that made her knees falter.

Carrie’s mind blurred. The world narrowed to the feel of his hands framing her face, the taste of sweetness and smoke still clinging to him, the dizzying realization that she hadn’t wanted anyone like this in years — maybe ever.

When the kiss finally eased, their foreheads brushed, breath mingling.

In that quiet, she understood what set him apart. Unlike her father, Vaughn’s risks weren’t flights from consequence — they were his way of giving life weight. Maybe that was why she’d found him: where her sense of responsibility guarded what mattered, his courage gave it life. Together they struck a balance she hadn’t known she needed: his fire gave her values motion, and her steadiness gave his daring a home.

But she shouldn’t allow herself to get carried away. He was leaving soon. There was no time to waste.

She caught his hand. “I’m not the kind of woman who does this,” she said quietly. “But even if it’s just one night … I want to know what this feels like.”

He brushed his thumb along her jaw, eyes steady on hers. “I’m no fortune teller,” he said, voice rough, “but if I were gambling, I’d bet everything this night is just the beginning.”

And when he lifted her into his arms, it felt less like choice and more like the moment fate laid down its winning hand.

 

Author’s note:
The images in this post are AI-generated — visual companions meant to bring the story to life (character consistency isn’t always 100%).

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I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it. From a Human Design perspective, Carrie and Vaughn are like a study in contrasts, but that’s what makes their dynamic so electric (see an overview of their charts here). Their opposing energies — her deep sense of duty to uphold safety and harmony (Gate 50) and his relentless pursuit of meaningful challenges (Gate 28) — create a tension that sparks transformation. In Human Design terms, they challenge and expand each other’s circuitry, but it’s in that friction that the magic happens.

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Next month, we’re trading New Orleans heat for Alpine snow! Casting Light takes us to a small French town where event producer Avery Harper is determined to make her first solo project — a Thanksgiving festival abroad — a dazzling success. What she doesn’t expect is Olivier Morel, the brilliant but infuriating light artist who thinks her “imported holiday” doesn’t belong in his hometown. Their clash over vision and values will ignite something neither of them planned for… and maybe illuminate what it really means to connect.

For my Human Design readers:

Avery carries the bold, experiential energy of a 3/5 Manifesting Generator—restless, hands-on, and always learning by diving straight into life’s messiest moments. Olivier, on the other hand, is a 1/3 Generator—steady, methodical, and quietly rebuilding his world one tested truth at a time. Together, they bridge experimentation and understanding, showing how insight meets motion when two very different designs find their rhythm.

If you’d like to read next month’s Thanksgiving-themed story when it’s published, subscribe to Charts & Hearts.