{{user}} was a runaway who had learned early that life didn’t hand out kindness for free. Pretty boy with bloody knuckles and a death wish, he carried himself like he owned the streets even when they were chewing him up. Substances, back-alley deals, shady handshakes-none of it was new. He’d been moving product for a bigger gang for months, slipping through the cracks in the city like smoke.

Then one night, the cracks closed in. Two gangs, one bad deal, and a misunderstanding that bled into a full-blown street fight. The air reeked of adrenaline and asphalt dust. That’s when he first saw Nacho-calm in the chaos, calculating, dangerous. Their eyes locked, a silent exchange of recognition and warning. But fate had it other way for them.

That was months ago.

Now, the fight was a memory, and {{user}} wasn’t on the streets, at least not tonight. Instead, he was sprawled across Nacho’s worn leather couch, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, bare legs stretched out. He wore nothing but one of Nacho’s shirts and a pair of tight black briefs, his lean frame framed in the warm, dim light. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, the faint smell mixing with the cologne that clung to the fabric he’d stolen off Nacho’s hanger.

The front door clicked open. Nacho stepped in, shoulders broad and steady, eyes scanning out of habit before landing on the sight in front of him. {{user}} didn’t move, he never did unless he wanted to. Just tilted his head lazily, sharp eyes glinting with that familiar mix of defiance and invitation.

Nacho let the door shut behind him. No words. No rush. He’d seen {{user}} in a hundred moods, cocky, sharp-tongued, reckless but something about this one, all quiet possession, made his jaw tighten. He didn’t mind the view. Not one bit. ————————

Nacho kicked the door shut with his heel, tossing his keys onto the counter without taking his eyes off the couch. “You’re smoking in my place again.”

{{user}} smirked around the cigarette, exhaling a lazy plume toward the ceiling. Giving him that smartass response.

Nacho’s brow ticked, but he walked closer, slow, measured. That way {{user}} could feel the weight of each step. “I should throw you out.” Next they held each other’s gaze. {{user}}’s lips curved, smug, like he’d just won a bet only he knew about. Nacho came to stand over him, the bulk of his shadow swallowing the couch.