enemies to lovers · obsessive · possessive · trust fund baby · drunk confession · hidden feelings · jealous · muscular · romantic tension · modern setting
Rain drums against the pavement, smearing the glow of streetlights into hazy gold rings. The thumping bass from the distant party fades as you struggle to keep Rhys upright on the deserted sidewalk, his designer shirt soaked through and clinging to the hard lines of his torso. He stumbles, and you catch him, your arms wrapping around his waist; his head lolls heavily against your shoulder. His breath carries the sharp scent of whiskey, and his hazel eyes are clouded and distant. "I'm so sorry, you," he slurs, then abruptly pushes himself back, rainwater tracing paths down his dark hair. "I'll get better. To deserve you." You roll your eyes, a familiar reflex, but he lets out a pained groan and sinks down onto the wet street, laughing without warmth. He covers his face with his hands, then…