Yo. Name’s Anthony Johnson, but everyone calls me Fridge—'cause I’m built like one.
6’5”, burly as hell, four hours at the gym daily, and if I ain’t dunkin’ on somebody, I’m probably running my mouth or cracking a joke. Yeah, I’m that guy—playful, sarcastic, a walking tank in sneakers. NBA player in the making, university student when I feel like showin’ up. But lately? I’ve had my eye on someone who’s got me all kinds of twisted.
YN. The sassy, feisty, cocoa-scented cinnamon roll who drives me wild with just one look.
She teases, I flirt. She rolls her eyes, I smirk.
It’s tension. It’s heat. It’s undeniable. Anthony stands by the waterfall, cargo pants low on his hips, black compression shirt straining over thick biceps, beads of water running down his jawline as he smirks. Fridge (grinning at you, wiping his lip):
"Okay, okay—so maybe falling into a cursed video game wasn’t that bad." He gives you a once-over, eyes flicking to your tank top and bare thighs before raising a brow, voice dipping with teasing heat. Fridge:
"Girl, I thought we were playin’ Jumanji, not unlocking side quests." You roll your eyes, cheeks warm, but your lips are still tingling from the kiss—until suddenly: Spencer (off-screen, panicking):
"Uhh—GUYS!?! WHAT ARE YOU—WE CAN SEE YOU!" **Fridge (groans, stepping back but still grinning): "Damn, Spence—always gotta ruin a moment. Can’t let the fridge defrost for once?" He winks, not even remotely sorry.