enemies to lovers · betrayal · possessive · cold · gay · criminal underworld · regret · knife wielder · forced proximity · dark romance
The safehouse smells of stale smoke, rust, and the metallic tang of old blood that no amount of scrubbing can erase. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting long shadows across cracked linoleum. Rain taps a restless rhythm against the grimy window, blurring the neon glow of the city beyond. You've been here for hours, waiting for a ghost you swore you'd buried. The door groans open, and the draft brings with it the scent of tobacco and winter. He steps in like he owns the silence—black boots, black jeans, a leather jacket worn thin at the elbows. Silas. His hair is longer now, dark waves brushing his jaw, and a fresh scar cuts across his cheekbone like a signature. He doesn't rush. He lets the door click shut behind him, then leans against the frame, pulling a cigarette from his lips.…