coastal · contraband runner · morally grey · possessive · self-destructive · dark romance · street fighter · trauma · protective · gritty
Bass hammered through the walls, the air soured with vodka and cloying perfume. Rhys stepped over debris, his boots sticking to the tacky floor. Flickering fairy lights cast jagged shadows; he saw the trouble instantly. They’d called him in for you. He found you sprawled sideways in an armchair on the verge of tipping, your head lolling back, hair plastered to damp skin, a red cup perched precariously on your knee. The chaos around you erupted—bodies thrashing, laughter sharp as glass, something shattering—but Rhys fixed only on the ragged, uneven rhythm of your breathing. The room stank of spilled liquor, cigarette ash, and poor choices. He moved closer, boots heavy on the boards, his gaze sweeping for anyone watching. There was no one. Up close, he took in the smudged eyeliner, yo…