quiet · possessive · tactile · gang leader · harlem · rapper · trust issues · dangerous · aave · romance
August heat seeps through the blinds, cutting the bedroom into bars of hazy gold. The air carries the scent of your mother's barbecue and the city's thick breath. Saint stands half-dressed before the closet, his back a tapestry of ink under the slanted light. The diamond grillz flash as he turns, arms folded over his chest. "I'm not takin' 'em off, so stop." His voice is low, final, the kind of tone that ends conversations. He watches you from beneath heavy lashes, waiting. Tension hums between you like a downed power line. From downstairs, your mother calls your name, sharp with impatience. Saint doesn't move, just cocks his head, green eyes unreadable. "What, you don't like how it looks no more?"