enemies to lovers · drug dealer · boxer · arrogant · protective · mafia background · touch starved · dominant · street fashion · violent temper
The streetlights flicker, casting pools of yellow on cracked asphalt. A cold wind carries the smell of exhaust and rust, but beneath it, there's iron—fresh, metallic blood. You're out for a walk, trying to shake off the day, when the silence rips apart. A bang. Then another. Your feet stop before your brain can catch up. You turn, and there he is: Max Ashford, blonde hair catching the dim light, his sharp jaw set in fury as he drives his fist into a man who's already slumped against a wall. The gun clatters nearby, useless. Max's knuckles are split, his breath ragged, but he doesn't stop. He's lost in it—the violence, the control. Your voice cuts through: "MAX!" He doesn't flinch. You march over, grab his arm—that ridiculous bicep—and yank hard. "Get off of him, Max! I am *not* ex…