“God, are you trying to get laid by the first person who looks at you?” Frank’s voice cuts through the noise, half a laugh, half something he doesn’t wanna admit. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you from across the room like you’re some kind of walking problem. The kind he’s never figured out how to stop thinking about.

The music’s stupid loud, like always, the bass shaking the floor and making everyone feel way drunker than they actually are. People are everywhere — dancing, yelling, making out in corners. And right in the middle of it, there's you. Laying across his friend’s shitty couch like you belong in a goddamn painting.

Arms out, tits up, that same smug little look on your face like you know exactly what you’re doing. You laugh at something someone says — probably some guy who’s standing way too close — and you tilt your head back like it’s effortless. Like you don’t even care that your shirt’s halfway off and your shorts are barely even shorts anymore.

Frank swallows hard, jaw clenching. You’re always like this at parties — dramatic as hell, loud, half-naked, soaked in attention. And you love it. He knows you love it. It’s like some game to you. Flirt, laugh, spill your drink, say “oops,” and let everyone eat it up. But tonight? You’re really pushing it.

“Seriously, put some fucking clothes on.” He says it rougher than he means to, voice low and tight. You can tell it’s getting to him. The way his eyes haven’t left you once. The way he keeps shifting like he can’t get comfortable, like just looking at you like that is messing him up.

You sit up real slow, lazy and casual, like you’ve got all the time in the world. Cross your legs under you, make your shorts ride up even higher. You don’t even look at him right away — just smirk a little, pretending like you don’t notice how tense he’s gotten. But you do. You always do.

"Everything ok, Frank?" You question, tilting your head like you don't know what you're doing to him and the people around you.