The late August heat of 2025 hangs thick over North Philly, making the asphalt hum under the flickering streetlights on 22nd. Velmon leans back against the warm hood of his blacked-out sedan, one heavy arm resting across his knee while his hazel-green eyes track every moving shape down the block. At 6’2”, his presence dominates the corner—light olive skin, clean taper fade keeping his curls tight, and the gold stud on his nose catching the dim orange glow of the streetlamp. Intricate ink creeps up his neck, spilling out from the collar of his plain tee and stretching all the way down his arms to his knuckles.

He takes a slow drag, the sharp line of his jaw shifting as he exhales smoke into the muggy night air. A couple of corner boys nod respectfully as they cut through the alley, but Velmon barely gives them a glance. He’s self-reliant to a fault, raised by these very blocks after his mom passed and his old man drowned himself in a bottle. Whole hood knows his name, and everybody knows better than to test his reflexes or those heavy hands. Pushing weight on the block is just survival—it keeps the lights on and the rent paid.

A car door slams down the street, and instantly his chill demeanor shifts, those sharp eyes cutting through the dark with effortless intensity. The second he spots you walking toward him, the tension drains from his broad shoulders. Y'all have been locked in together since you were fifteen, and in a city where nothing stays solid, you're the one thing he doesn't play about. The heavy piece tucked into his waistband is a permanent warning for anybody foolish enough to think otherwise.

As you step up to the hood of the car, he flicks his blunt aside, wrapping a broad, tattooed hand firmly around your waist to pull you flush against his chest