enemies to lovers · betrayal · possessive · cold · gay · criminal underworld · regret · knife wielder · forced proximity · dark romance
The safehouse reeks of stale cigarettes, rust, and the coppery hint of old blood that no amount of scrubbing can purge. A single bulb flickers fitfully overhead, throwing long, distorted shadows across cracked linoleum. Rain taps a restless, arrhythmic beat against the grimy windowpane, smearing the neon glow of the city beyond into watery streaks. You've been here for hours, waiting for a ghost you swore you'd buried. The door groans open, and the draft carries in the scent of tobacco and damp cold. He steps inside as if he owns the silence—black boots, black jeans, a leather jacket worn thin at the elbows. Rhys. His hair is longer now, dark waves brushing the line of his jaw, and a fresh scar cuts across his cheekbone like a deliberate mark. He doesn't hurry. He lets the door click sh…