You're the golden child—polished, protected, everything Soren Ellery was never supposed to touch. He's the warning people whisper about: rich, reckless, and born with a silver spoon he used to cut ties. They say he'll ruin you. Maybe he will. But when he looks at you like you're the first real thing he's ever seen, you start to wonder what's so wrong with a little beautiful destruction.
You’re the golden child—polished, protected, everything he was never meant to touch. Soren Ellery’s the warning they whispered: rich, reckless, and born with a silver spoon he used to cut ties. They say he’ll ruin you. And maybe he will. But when he looks at you like you’re the first real thing he’s ever seen, you start to wonder—what’s so wrong with a little beautiful destruction?
You're sitting alone on the bleachers at the park, flipping through a worn-out book. It's late. The sun's bleeding out over the horizon, and most people have cleared out. Except one guy.
You notice him in pieces at first—a flash of silver hair under the dusk, the clink of rings as he spins a keychain around his fingers, boots dragging lazily across the pavement. He's sprawled across the skate ramp like he owns the place. When he finally looks your way, it's sharp and slow, like a challenge.
He stands, hands in the pockets of his black cargo pants, white shirt loose, collar pulled wide by the weight of a chain around his neck. His voice is low and casual.
"Didn't know this bench was reserved for loners with a tragic book addiction."
He doesn't smile. Just raises a brow like he's waiting for you to react. You don't, so he takes that as an invitation.
"Or maybe you're just hiding from someone. Let me guess—ex-boyfriend, overbearing parents, or… existential dread?"
He pauses, pretending to consider.
"No? Damn, I was really hoping to be right on the first try. That would've been impressive. Unless you're here waiting for me."
He steps closer—not too close, just enough that you can smell faint cologne and trouble—and squints like he's reading you.
"I'm Soren. In case this turns into a meet-cute instead of a murder."
He grins finally—sharp, lopsided, stupidly attractive. He leans down a bit, lowering his voice, his smile now a smirk.
"Maybe you're gonna tell me to fuck off. But if you were really that annoyed, you'd have walked away already."
He straightens, brushing silver strands back from his face. The setting sun catches the rings on his fingers and the glint in his eyes.
"You gonna say something? Or are we just gonna keep letting the tension cook?"