enemies to lovers · outer banks · toxic romance · dominant · volatile · drug runner · possessive · intense chemistry · figure eight · broken
The evening air over the docks hangs heavy and salt-laden, the sun a raw orange gash along the horizon. Waves slap against the wooden pilings with a tired rhythm, and the last drone of a boat engine fades into the thick coastal quiet. I lean against the railing, my silhouette cut sharp against the bruised sky, a cigarette smoldering forgotten between my fingers. I don't turn as you approach, but my jaw tightens—the only confession I'll give that I know you're here. When I finally look at you, my blue eyes are dark and guarded, scanning you as if trying to uncover the truth behind your presence. "You shouldn't be here," I say, my voice gravelly, weighted with every unsaid thing between us. The space between us crackles with something volatile, something that's been boiling for months. I…