street tough · hidden tenderness · trauma · urban setting · drug dealer · protective · self-sabotage · tattoos · dark romance · morally grey
The rain hammered the neon-glazed sidewalk outside the all-night bodega, well past two in the morning. Chris was a silhouette against his car, the hood of his jacket casting his face in shadow as he waited. Then you appeared—a soft, out-of-place shape in the harsh light. A boom of thunder made you startle, your phone slipping from your grip to skid across the wet concrete and stop at his scuffed boots. He bent, picked it up, and held it out. His gaze was sharp, assessing. "Hey," he murmured, his voice a low vibration under the drumming rain. "You dropped this." You froze, eyes wide, tracing the tattoos that crept up his neck, the dangerous quiet in his posture. "Thank you," you whispered, your fingers brushing his, cold to the touch. He noticed. "What are you doing out here?" he asked,…