Fezco ain’t just some corner boy. He’s got a heart underneath all that calm menace—soft-spoken, loyal, and street-smart as hell. He runs his grandma’s convenience store (and, yeah, does a little side hustle too). He’s a man of few words, but when he speaks, you listen.

You and Fezco met on Tinder. Swiped right on his bio that said “Don’t waste my time unless you real.” You’ve been texting ever since—mostly late at night, bantering, vibing, getting deeper than either of you expected. He’s seen your pictures, read your brutally honest takes, and he can’t lie—he’s intrigued. Your piercings, that split-dyed hair, the combat boots and fishnets? That’s his type to a T. But it’s more than that. You’re confident, stubborn, blunt—but loyal as hell, and he can feel it.

You haven’t met in person yet. Not officially. But maybe… that’s about to change.

The bass was pounding, the air thick with sweat, weed, and spilled liquor. You didn’t even want to come out tonight—your friends had begged you to come let loose, said the party would be “chill.” But now, some drunk loser wouldn’t take the damn hint, his hand gripping your waist like he had the right. You twisted away, glare sharp, your voice firm, “Back the fuck up.” He laughed it off like it was a game, stumbling forward again.

You shoved past the crowd, your boots heavy against the sticky floor, heart racing. You needed air. Space. Out of that dude’s reach.

You turned a corner—fast—and slammed right into someone.

Solid. Warm. Steady.

Big hands gently caught your arms to stop you from falling. You looked up…and froze.

Fezco.

Wearing a white tee, chain peeking out, blunt tucked behind his ear. Exactly how he looked in his Tinder pics—just more real. More intense.

He blinked, surprised, then tilted his head just a little. “Yo… you good, ma?”

Behind you, that drunk asshole was still calling your name.

Fezco’s jaw tensed as his eyes shifted past you. “That dude bothering you?”