𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐌.𝐂. 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.
𝗘𝗭 𝗥𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
You walk into the scrapyard with someone who knows the club, just tagging along, not expecting much.
EZ spots you before you even realize where you're going. He stops mid-conversation, his voice dying in his throat.
There's a quiet, weighty pause as he watches you. Something about you punches the air out of his lungs—your eyes, your energy. It’s not just attraction—it’s recognition.
He's too controlled to show it outright, but his brows lift ever so slightly, and his jaw tightens.
He approaches with a calm smile, but his heart's hammering in his chest. You catch him scanning your face like he's trying to memorize it.
He stumbles slightly over his introduction. EZ Reyes doesn't stumble—ever. That alone tells him you're trouble, the kind that gets under your skin.
“You just passing through, or should I be hoping you’ll be around for a while?” he asks, smooth but laced with genuine curiosity.
Later, he keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You catch him once. He looks away with a soft smirk, caught red-handed.
That night, he goes home and sketches you. He doesn't even understand why.
𝗔𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗹 𝗥𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Angel’s first reaction? Whistle-low under his breath, muttering, “Damn…” before he even realizes it slipped out.
You don’t even make eye contact with him right away, but that doesn’t stop him from soaking you in.
He’s all charm and cocky swagger at first—approaches you like he’s already got you figured out.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he grins, flashing those dimples.
But when you talk? That voice, that fire in your eyes? He freezes for half a beat. His smirk fades slightly—his attraction deepens into something sharper, more unsettling.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, turning away briefly like he needs a second to recalibrate.
Angel's drawn to chaos, but you? You make him want something more stable without even trying.
Later that night, he scrolls through his phone, wondering if asking for your number the same day is too much—then says screw it and does it anyway.
𝗝𝗼𝗵𝗻𝗻𝘆 “𝗖𝗼𝗰𝗼” 𝗖𝗿𝘂𝘇 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Coco’s sitting on the curb, smoking, one leg pulled up when you walk by.
His eyes follow you instantly, lips parting slightly. His cigarette nearly burns to the filter while he watches you.
“Damn… Who’s that?” he asks nobody in particular, blinking like he just woke up.
He tries to play it cool, real casual. Calls out something half-flirty, half-stupid like, “You got any idea what kinda trouble you’re causin’ out here, girl?”
When you throw a witty remark back at him without missing a beat, he chokes on a laugh.
That’s when it hits him. He’s not just attracted—he’s hooked.
The feeling creeps up his spine, makes him shift uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since someone made him feel this awake.
“Shit, you dangerous,” he mutters, grinning, scratching at his neck like he’s trying to shake it off.
Spends the rest of the day telling himself he doesn’t need this—then actively finds reasons to walk by you again.
𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝘂𝘀 Á𝗹𝘃𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘇 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Marcus isn’t a man who gets shaken easily. He’s calculated, measured, composed.
But when you walk into the room, it’s like something short-circuits in him.
He doesn't react outwardly—he doesn’t let himself. Not in front of the boys. But internally? There’s an unsettling heat in his chest he hasn’t felt in years.
He watches you with hawk-like eyes, assessing everything—your poise, your smile, how you carry yourself.
“Who is she?” he asks Bishop in a low voice, trying to sound offhand. He fails.
He’s direct when he finally speaks to you. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Marcus Álvarez,” he says with a slow nod, voice deep and unreadable.
But you feel the tension in the air when you shake his hand. His fingers linger just a second too long. His eyes hold yours like they’re searching for something.
Later, he’s alone in his office, pouring himself a drink, wondering what the hell this pull is—and if he’s too old to chase it.
𝗢𝗯𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗼 “𝗕𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗽” 𝗟𝗼𝘀𝗮 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Bishop’s usually all business—he doesn’t waste time on distractions.
But you? You’re a disruption from the first second.
His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you from across the lot. At first, it’s curiosity. Then… something else.
He crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real.
He doesn’t approach right away. He wants to know who you are, what you're about. Sends someone else to make introductions and watches your reactions carefully.
Eventually walks up, nods, says, “Bishop. You got a name to go with that smile?”
He’s trying to keep things light, but his voice is low, rough. There's a note of seriousness he can't shake.
You laugh, and it punches through his chest like a shotgun blast. He doesn’t smile often, but you make him.
That night, he’s in the clubhouse, nursing a drink, staring at the wall, trying to talk himself out of the idea that you might be exactly what he didn’t know he needed.
𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅
Manny’s instantly warm when he sees you. His smile hits fast and wide—eyes lighting up like a kid at Christmas.
“Whoa… Hey there, querida,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag as he walks over.
You can feel his energy before he even reaches you—bold, flirty, but not overbearing. It’s like gravity.
He’s not shy about the way he looks at you. It’s appreciative, reverent even. Like he’s not just seeing your beauty—he’s feeling it.
He tells a joke to make you laugh and beams when you do. That sound? He’s addicted already.
Later, he offers you a drink at the bar, pulling out a stool for you before you even get the chance to say yes.
“I don’t know what brought you here, but I’m real glad it did,” he says, tapping his glass to yours.
He leans in a little closer than necessary when you talk, hanging on your words like they’re gospel.
And after you leave? He’s already planning how to see you again without making it obvious he’s smitten.
