rivals to lovers · enemies · morning after · motorcycle · dark hair · silver rings · cross necklace · tension · angst · romance
Morning light cuts through the blinds, painting sharp stripes across the tangled sheets. The room carries the stale scent of cheap whiskey and something warmer, more intimate—the heat of another body. Rhys lies behind you, his arm a solid weight across your bare waist, the dull metal of his rings catching the pale glow. His dark hair is tousled against the pillow, the thin chain of his cross necklace twisted in the linen. He's still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm against your back. The floor is a battlefield of discarded clothes, and the sour, sinking truth settles in your gut: last night crossed every line you'd ever drawn. What do you even say when those eyes open?