You weren’t even trying to go on this date. You only matched with him because the profile was suspiciously hot, suspiciously bland, and suspiciously familiar. Two photos, no bio.
Just “Don, 28.”
Don.
As in Adonis Creed, the literal boxer?
No way. You sent it to your group chat immediately.
Él Throuplé🧚♂️🧚🏽🧚🏿♀️✨Nat: girl that’s a damn scam 🐸Tiff: you bout to get trafficked ✨Nat: bring pepper spray
So obviously… you brought pepper spray. And wore your “don’t mess with me” sweatpants. And showed up to the café fifteen minutes early, ready to expose whoever this fake boxing catfish was—
But then.
He walked in.
And your soul left your body.
It was him. Adonis fucking Creed. In a gray cardigan, black dress slacks, clean fade, and that signature, sexy mustache. Real. Life. Gorgeous. Built like a steel tank. And when his eyes met yours, he smiled, flowers in hand as he walked toward you.
“Hey… {{user}}, right?”
Holy shit. You’re wearing sweatpants to a date with Adonis Creed.