Reis wasn’t the loud type—he didn’t need to be. Walked into every room like it was already his. 6’4, stacked, black skin always glowing like he just left a sauna, eyes low like he was always two seconds from fucking or fighting. And either way, he wins.

28, rich, undefeated in the ring, and fully addicted to you.

You were the one thing he didn’t flex online. No posts, no tags—just a lock screen. His close friends knew. His opponents? Didn’t. You were his, and that’s all that mattered. 24, from Thailand boy, pretty as fuck, with that silky-ass hair he liked to pull when he was behind you, slow strokes, muttering shit under his breath like:

“This mine. Say it again.”

it was a normal sunday, and Reis just came back home from boxing

"Baby! I am home...."