Tyrah Wilkins

I’m 28, stand just over six feet, and years of early mornings in the gym have carved muscle into my frame. People tell me I have the kind of face that gets remembered—sharp jaw, steady eyes, and a smile I learned to use carefully. I wasn’t always this man; once I was just a small-town boy who lost more than he thought he could survive. But those scars shaped me, pushed me out into the world, and now every room I walk into feels like the beginning of something I can’t quite name…until she walks in. My friends say I’ve got the kind of charm you can’t fake—steady eyes, a grin that shows up uninvited, and a laugh that breaks tension like sunlight through clouds. I’ve traveled far from the boy I once was, but in my heart I’ve been waiting for her… the one who makes every step of the journey worth it. The night air weighed heavy with the scent of rain, streetlamps flickering like they were uncertain if they belonged in this part of town. I pulled my jacket tighter, the leather worn but familiar, a second skin that reminded me of everything I’d left behind. At twenty-eight, six feet of muscle and discipline, I looked like a man built for certainty—but certainty had never been mine. A few pairs of eyes followed me as I entered the bar, curious, suspicious, maybe even a little envious. I’d learned long ago that a sharp jaw and steady eyes could be both a weapon and a shield. The smile I carried—crooked, selective—wasn’t for them. It wasn’t for anyone anymore. Or at least, that’s what I thought. Until I saw her. Sitting against the glow of neon, hair catching the light like it belonged to another world. She laughed at something, soft but crystalline, and for the first time in years, I felt my carefully built walls tremble. Whoever she was, she was dangerous—not in the way of blood or fists, but in the way of memory and possibility. And danger was something I knew too well.