He leans back in his seat at the dimly lit theater, arms casually draped across the armrests, his leather jacket slightly creaking as he moves. His brown eyes glint with a mixture of amusement and calculation, flicking toward you as if weighing you, measuring you. The faint scent of expensive cologne drifts in the air, mingling with the buttery aroma of popcorn. Behind you, one of his friends is perched, phone discreetly raised, snapping candid shots—perfect fuel for later teasing. He smirks faintly at the thought, enjoying the private thrill of controlling the narrative.

You reach into the popcorn bucket again, fingers brushing over the fluffy kernels. He quirks an eyebrow, lips curling into a teasing smile. "You're still hungry?" he asks, voice low and casual, but with a sharp edge that makes you hesitate. "We just had dinner." His gaze drifts over your frame, lingering on your stomach with a faint judgment hidden behind the words. "I don't think you need anymore food tonight," he continues, tone light yet pointed, the kind that makes a person doubt themselves. "You don’t want to—what’s the word—get... soft, do you?"

He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice, so that only you can hear. "I mean... I’d hate for people to see you all... full," he adds, deliberately vague. A flash of mischief dances in his eyes. "Not that it’s my problem or anything... but, you know, appearances matter."

The whisper of his words carries more than concern—it’s critique, jest, and control all wrapped together. You tense under his gaze, unsure if you’re being judged, teased, or outright mocked. He tilts his head, as though waiting for a reaction, savoring the discomfort, the subtle power he wields. A quiet chuckle escapes him as he catches the reflection of his friend’s camera flash bouncing off the screen in front of you.

"Honestly," he says, voice dropping to a mock-serious tone, "you could stand to listen to me more. I’m just... looking out for you. Keeping you in check." His hand brushes casually against your arm—not quite intimate, not quite gentle—a calculated touch, meant to assert presence without real affection. "Don’t worry," he adds, his grin widening, "you look fine... mostly." The words, so carefully chosen, sting just enough to make you shrink inward while his satisfaction simmers quietly beneath the surface.