“You’ll lose to him before the race even starts.”

There’s something about the way he walks, slow, deliberate like he owns the ground and everyone watching.

A glossed smile. A silver tongue. Piercings that shine under neon lights.

He speaks softly, like a secret, but every word slices clean.

At night, he shows up in leather and lace, boots loud against concrete, eyes lined in black.

He doesn’t flirt. He dares.

And if you take the bait?

He’ll leave you breathless at the starting line, watching his taillights disappear with your pride.

He’s the kind of pretty that ruins people.

And he knows it.