—𝙎𝙈𝙊𝙏𝙃

The following week, the channel 6 news room hummed with it's usually frantic energy, yet an invisible shroud had descended, chilling the air. Jonathan Elwood, their star anchor, had vanished days ago, only for his body to resurface in a putrid dumpster, a mere alley-width from their gleaming studio. Most reeled from the gruesome revelation, but none more acutely than Catherine Barlow, Jonathan’s co-anchor.

(Y/N) felt no such overwhelming sorrow, though he resolved to keep them both in his prayers that night. Or perhaps not. Not truly. For the short time (Y/N) had worked at the studio, he’d noticed the subtle facial expressions and hand movements exchanged between the pair. Of course, both Jonathan and Catherine were married, but not to each other.

(Y/N) possessed a unique advantage. He blended into the background, often overlooked or simply missed. This uncanny ability allowed him to truly see things when others believed themselves to be alone, perhaps the very reason he made such a good journalist. He had picked up on Catherine’s subtle flutter of an eyelash, the way her hand would gently rest on Elwood’s knee beneath the panel table. Jonathan, in turn, devoured these quiet displays of affection. He knew the pair were having an affair on set, but even that didn't warrant Jonathan's untimely death.

Regardless of the grim circumstances, (Y/N) had keenly observed the shift in Vincent’s demeanor. After Jonathan’s disappearance, Vincent had been handed the anchor's chair, a temporary placeholder for the missing man. But with the unforeseen demise of his predecessor, the role was now permanently his. He didn't seem particularly troubled by the death, though few would have noticed such a subtle tremor beneath his polished exterior.

Later, in the relative quiet of a secluded breakroom, (Y/N) hunched over his meticulously kept notes on his fellow anchors. He’d initially compiled them as a quirky memory aid. names, coffee preferences, the odd juicy tidbit gleaned from overheard conversations. He skimmed the page, his Palmer Method script, tiny and precise, correcting a stray typo.

He was just adding a fresh observation when a shadow fell across his page. Someone else looking to sit down? He instinctively nudged his half-eaten sandwich and carton of milk aside, a soft, apologetic murmur escaping his lips.

"May I?"

(Y/N) raised his head, and his gaze met Vincent Whittman, who towered over him, a study in effortless power. Could this God of a man truly want to sit beside someone as quiet and unremarkable as (Y/N)? It seemed so. A moment of silence stretched as the young intern's eyes traced the elegant drape of Vincent's tan coat over broad shoulders, a perfect complement to his powerful physique.

"Of course..." (Y/N) finally managed, his voice barely a whisper.

As Vincent settled into the seat beside him, his gaze fell to the small steno pad (Y/N) was attempting to shield with his hands. In turn, (Y/N) couldn't help but notice the faint sheen of sweat in the hollow of the slightly older man's neck, where he had loosened his tie.

"You're inspiring, truly," the intern blurted out, a thoughtless admission. For a fleeting second, he feared his words were too direct, a whispered secret laid bare.

"For someone you find so inspiring," Vincent returned, an eyebrow arching in amusement, "you haven't written anything about me?"

In truth, (Y/N) had never dared to write about Vincent, terrified he would gush his true feelings onto the page. Now, he feared those confessions had just slipped past his lips.

"I... I was just about to," (Y/N) lied, the words catching as he watched Vincent's mismatched eyes, one a deep emerald, the other a startling sapphire, scan the incriminating blankness of the page.

"No," The man's voice dropped, a low rumble, as he delivered a momentary, affectionate squeeze to the intern's neck. "You weren't." The unexpected touch rendered (Y/N) mute, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

As Vincent withdrew his hand, he caught the look in (Y/N)'s eyes. Admiration? Devotion? Worship? Whatever it was, Vincent couldn't help but devour it. He swiftly moved his hands to readjust his tie, already rising to stand.

In (Y/N)'s desperation, not wanting the interaction to end so soon, he spoke up.

"I'm (Y/N) (L/N), by the way." He said, only now realizing that he hadn't introduced himself.

"I'm pleased to meet you, (Y/N) (L/N)."

(Y/N) Had just enough time to see that Vincent was pleased before he turned, leaving the young intern alone once more. It was only after Vincent had departed that (Y/N) noticed the room had been empty this entire time.

---

"Today we mourn the loss of one of our own, but our commitment to the truth is as strong as ever. Remember, trust us with your news."

With that, tonight's broadcast concluded. Standing behind the cameras, (Y/N) couldn't shake the lingering question of what truly transpired the night Jonathan died. That thought, however, was swiftly eclipsed by Vincent's approach. As cameramen and other news anchors fanned out, Vincent rested a gentle hand on the intern's shoulder.

"Did you write the script?" he asked, gesturing for (Y/N) to walk alongside him as his hand slipped from the intern's shoulder and found solace in his pant pocket.

(Y/N) replied bluntly, "I did."

"Did you enjoy the little ad-lib I added at the end?"

"Yes, it was a very nice touch... Mr. Whittman."

Vincent laughed, turning his head to face the smaller man. "You can call me Vincent." He grinned, and (Y/N) couldn't help but notice the heavenly sparkle in Vincent's eyes under the fluorescent lights.

Stopping, Vincent turned to face (Y/N), his bright eyes now shadowed in darkness. "Do you trust me, (Y/N)?" he whispered. There was no room for hesitation. In his desperation to answer correctly, (Y/N) whispered back, "Yes," as quickly as his lips could manage.

Pulling back, Vincent's smile widened. He said nothing more on the matter. "Have a good night, (Y/N)," he uttered, turning to leave the studio.

The fluorescent hum of the newsroom starkly contrasted with the rhythmic clicking and pinging of typewriters in his old newspaper office. (Y/N), a wisp of a man barely out of his teens, stood behind the cameras, mesmerized as the live broadcast unfolded. For months, he had chased local council scandals and missing cat posters at the Daily. But when an intern position opened at the news station, (Y/N) didn't just apply, he willed it into existence. He charmed his way through the interviews and, with a bit of luck, landed the job. This was finally his chance to make a noticeable impact on the world. Sure, he was behind the cameras, and the news anchors would be reading off scripts, but they would be his scripts, his work.

The year was 1948, the war was over. Yet, a different kind of battle brewed within (Y/N). He was devout, generously so. Every Sunday he attended church and volunteered for charity work. Standing here now, however, felt strangely akin to a sacred space. In front of a vibrant green screen stood the weatherman, Vincent Whittman. The name alone was a whispered prayer, a forbidden fantasy. (Y/N) had only ever listened to the news on the radio, a television was far beyond his budget. He didn't even own the apartment he was staying in, if one could truly call it that. He paid his rent, certainly, but this new internship promised a chance at better luxuries. His current abode consisted of a single bedroom and a cramped corner featuring a gas oven, stove, and a sink it was barely a kitchen. The bathroom was even smaller, just a booth tucked into the corner of the room with a toilet and shower. It wasn't much, but it would do for the moment.

"That's it for today, and remember, Trust Us with your weather." Vincent concluded his segment, and (Y/N) found himself still staring at the man. He was taller than (Y/N) imagined, with his impeccably tailored suit and slicked-back hair. His voice, smooth and almost hypnotic, had been done no justice by the radio. His face was undeniably made for television.

As the newsroom staff shifted, preparing for their next segment, he couldn't help but notice the subtle wink Vincent flashed in his direction as he, too, moved away from the screens. A flutter in his chest manifested into a strong heartbeat against his ribcage. He yearned to approach the man, to introduce himself, but his feet remained rooted to the ground. Perhaps this was God's way of throwing an obstacle in his path, but such thoughts were distant. It wasn't long before he was left standing alone, contemplating his next move. One thing, however, he knew for certain was if he lived to be a hundred, he would never admire another soul the way he admired Vincent. Not even God himself could compete with that.