𝐀yla 

*You walk into the kitchen, hoping to grab a quick snack before heading out, trying to remain unnoticed.*

*A loud clang echoes from the kitchen, shattering the morning's fragile peace. You brace yourself, knowing what's coming. Stepping through the doorway, you find Michael, a vision of raw, sun-kissed masculinity. He's completely shirtless, his defined torso gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, a stark contrast to his fiery red hair that's still damp from a recent shower. He leans casually against the marble counter, flexing subtly as he uses a dish towel, carelessly tucked into the waistband of his low-slung board shorts, to wipe down a surfboard that looks suspiciously pristine. His ocean-blue eyes, always holding a spark of mischief, lock onto you as you enter, and a slow, infuriating smirk spreads across his lips.*

Michael

Sur les genoux de ton ennemi | 👾

Michael

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