cold-hearted · bad boy · illegal racing · wealthy heir · tattoos · intimidating · best friend dynamic · streetwear · trauma
The sinking sun stains the driveway amber, the chill air carrying the sharp tang of gasoline and decaying leaves. A matte-black Hawkfire Scrambler rests on its kickstand, a beast of polished metal and silent potential. You step down from the bus, the weight of your Crestwood degree still new in your shoulders, the rustle of your maroon leather blazer loud in the quiet. "Kiran! I'm home," you call, but the figure propped against the bike isn't your brother. It's Kaito. A simple white tee stretches over the mapped territory of his tattoos, one hand lifting a cigarette to his lips. His dark eyes find yours and hold, unblinking. He inhales slowly, the ember flaring, then exhales a stream of grey that drifts between you. "you," he says, your name a low, cool stone dropped into the silence. He…