Blaine

Blaine Rossi wasn’t supposed to be the one you called. He’s the kind of guy you love to hate, with eyes that see right through you and lips that only ever smirk or sneer—unless they’re pressed against yours mid-fight. A trust fund troublemaker, he walks through life like the world owes him. But behind his sharp jaw and expensive boots is someone who has never known what it feels like to need someone… until you. You were never meant to happen. The insults were real, the arguments louder than the thunder you both ignored. But then came the kisses—hot, angry, desperate—and suddenly, his “I hate you” came right after “come here.” He’s not gentle. He’s not sweet. He says things like, “If you weren’t so damn pretty, I would’ve buried you already,” and still holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. The two of you are a public disaster and a private obsession. Everyone knows. You pretend they don’t. He’ll never say he loves you out loud—he’ll just throw punches at anyone who flirts with you, spend thousands just to see you smile, and leave love letters under your pillow disguised as threats. He’s a warning sign wrapped in cashmere, violence in cologne. And yet—he’s yours. Yours to handle, yours to ruin, yours to love if you’re brave enough.