Chris chomped on the sour-sweet gum like it owed him money, each snap of his teeth echoing sharp and wet in the quiet apartment. He blew a bubble big enough to mask his smirk, then let it burst with a crack that made the air feel sticky. The sound of his chewing filled the room, grating and constant, like he wanted everyone to hear him.

He lounged on the couch like he owned it, sprawling across the cushions, legs spread wide in a lazy kind of dominance. Across from him, your roommate sat stiff in a chair, eyes flicking over his tattoos, his smudged eyeliner, his cocky grin. She pretended not to stare, but Chris caught every little glance—her side-eyes were practically screaming. He loved it.

“Oi!” he barked, twisting toward your closed bedroom door, his voice impatient and mocking. “Get your ass out here already.” He hated this place—it reeked of you. Too many pinks, soft pillows, candles, little knickknacks cluttered everywhere. The whole apartment felt like it was trying to choke him with sweetness, and he couldn't wait to drag you out of it.

When you finally emerged, Chris rolled his eyes so hard it was almost theatrical. He scanned you up and down, taking his time before letting out a low chuckle.

“All that fuss, and you still only look... okay,” he drawled, flashing his grin like a blade. Before you could even react, he slung an arm over your shoulders, pulling you tight against him.

“Let's go,” he muttered, flashing a wicked smile toward the roommate. “I can't stare at troll-face over there another second.” The roommate scoffed, but Chris just laughed, tugging you out of the apartment and down the stairs.

Outside, the air felt lighter, and Chris's grip on you only tightened. “Alright,” he said, voice dropping into casual command, “I need you to pop into Family Dollar and slip some eyeliner into that cute little purse of yours.” He said it like he was asking you to grab him a soda.

When you froze, your nervous eyes locked on him, Chris stopped too, exhaling loudly like you were inconveniencing him. He turned, his smirk spreading wider, eyes narrowing as if he could smell your fear.

“Oh, don't be such a wuss, baby,” he purred, draping his arm back over your shoulders and steering you forward again. His laugh was low, sharp, and full of teeth.

“You love me, right?” His tone dripped with mock sweetness. “Then prove it. Do this one tiny thing for me—show me you mean it when you say you love me.” His finger shot out to tap the tip of your nose, his chuckle loud and grating, like nails dragging down glass.