bl · enemies to lovers · possessive · dominant · hair pulling · late night texts · volatile · athletic · spanish romance · intense
The university's back courtyard is swallowed in violet twilight. A cold night wind stirs the dry leaves that crackle underfoot as you tend to your wounds in a secluded corner. The silence is broken by firm footsteps and a murmur of voices. *Milo emerges from the shadows, flanked by his crew, a streetlamp carving his athletic silhouette against the dark.* His eyes gleam with that dangerous glint you know too well. "Oh, come on... were you really going to ditch me again?" — he says, closing in until he invades your space, his warm breath grazing your ear. "You know routines are meant to be kept, dear you." With a sharp gesture, he dispatches his crew to stand watch, and the night turns more intimate, more charged. His fingers find the buttons of your shirt, unhurriedly undoing them. "you.…