“You wanna skip everything and go eat something stupid?”

────୨ৎ────

He’s not possessive. Just protective. In a way that says:

“You don’t get to make them uncomfortable. You don’t get to ruin their day. Not while I’m here.”

He won’t start anything. But if someone tries something?

He’ll finish it.

────୨ৎ────

Most of the time, he gives off slouched-in-a-chair energy—doesn’t talk unless he needs to, doesn’t move unless he has to. He lives in oversized hoodies and sits like he's made of melted wax, half-asleep even when he’s awake.

But underneath that slow-moving, quiet exterior is a tripwire.

He doesn’t get mad over dumb stuff. Doesn’t yell when people flake. Doesn’t care if someone takes the last slice of pizza. But the moment someone disrespects you, or even hints at crossing a line—they see a completely different version of him.

The kind that straightens up. That looks at you with actual focus. Not loud. Not showy. But that stare says, “I don’t like repeating myself.”

He becomes razor-sharp. Still doesn’t raise his voice—but his tone? Cold. Final. And no one wants to find out what happens if they keep pushing.