marci.

—

“Just buy it.” Scott’s voice is clipped, it’s his fifth time telling you, and yet you’re standing awkwardly in the store.

You know he’s not mad at you, just the fact he still has to show you that money isn’t an issue with him. You want to snap his debit card in half, but you’re sure he has a few more stashed away.

Your hands brush over the jacket, then pick up the tag to study it again. You hear him sigh and pluck the jacket, and tag, out of your hands. He drapes it over his arm, adding to the pile of shirts. He looks expectantly at you like you’re just going to toss clothes at him. You want to pitch a fit and demand that he stops spending so much money on you, yet you know it’d fall on deaf ears. Hell, Scott would just use your distracted mind to pick out more clothes for you.

You saunter over to the display of dresses, hand wandering over the fabric of a beautiful green one. His heavy footsteps are behind you. He’s happy to follow you around. Most men get tired after three stores, and that’s pushing it. Scott is different. He gets upset if you don’t at least stop into two different stores. He’s more than happy to trail behind you, holding each article of clothing, your purse, phone, or anything else you might collect.

You grab the dress off the rack and hold it in front of yourself. You can tell he’s looking you up and down when his jaw goes slightly rigid, he’s fully imagining you wearing it.

“Buy it.” Those two pesky words. Your eyes narrow and you pull the dress away from your body. You study him for a minute, “What color is the dress?”

It’s a low move, you know he can’t actually tell it’s green, but if he’s going to force your hand, you’re basically allowed to poke at him. Scott shakes his head, looking down at the wooden floor, “You’re stubborn, you know that, sweetheart?”

“What color is the dress, and I'll get it.” You hold it behind you, so he can’t snatch it out of your hands. You lift your chin at him, defiant. You’re only teasing and he knows it, he enjoys it. When anyone else teases him, it grates at his resolve. But your little teases make him smile.

“Let me guess,” He hums for a moment before answering, “Green.”

He laughs when you groan, basically throwing the dress at him. He takes it happily, adding it to the pile in his arms. “You cheated,” You grumble, already walking towards the register. He walks behind you, smiling wide, “How could I cheat? It’s not like I lifted my glasses, just a lucky guess.”

You choose to ignore his very sound argument and stand at the register. He places each item on the counter, taking time to detangle hangers and hand them off to the worker. Each item being rung up is torture to your ears, and Scott shoos you away before the worker states the total. He tells you to go outside and see if there’s any other shops you want to visit while he pays. You comply, leaning against the side of the building and eyeing each store. Shoe stores, bakeries, jewelry stores, none quite catch your eye, but you’re sure you’ll visit them anyway.

The door swings open and Scott walks out, bags gathered in one hand. His free hand reaches out and laces together with yours. “Thank you for the clothes, Scott.” You sigh, shooting him a pointed stare with no real heat.

He glances down at you and you know he’s wondering why you are even thanking him. “Of course, no need to thank me. I expect a fashion show, though.”

Scott is almost worse when he takes you out for dates.

He bought a pair of too expensive earrings for you the week before he took you out, claiming you needed them ‘just because.’ The dress you wore was bought last night because he just had to see you wearing it. He basically got on his knees in the middle of a high-end store just to get you to oblige. And to make it worse, he drove you to the extremely expensive restaurant in his Porsche. He was a master at showing off everything, including you.

Dinners, shopping sprees, drives around town, outfits, if you look at something, it’s yours before you can even try to object.

You mentioned an iced coffee that sounded delicious during lunch and it was within your hand in an hour. You brought up how your old necklaces were starting to grow a bit worn and that one had already fallen apart and you had a new collection in a week. It drove you mad and brought a smile to your face at the same time.

Scott couldn’t care. He’d silence your complaints with either a lazy smile or a simple kiss, both were equally effective.

You consider slipping into his wallet and stealing all of his cards while he’s away on a mission, maybe chucking them in the trash so he is at least delayed in his rampant spending for you.

—

The night air was a cold balm against your face. Your cheeks were reddened and ears were already going numb. You didn’t care, just tugging your cheap jacket closer on your body. Even though the sun had dipped far below the horizon, nothing seemed to slow beyond where your feet were planted.

When you first moved into Hell’s Kitchen, it felt more like a curse. You spent all your life in small cities that actually slept. But, after two years deep in this neighborhood, you couldn’t imagine not hearing your two neighbors bicker about their flunking teenage son, or the distant honking of horns with seemingly no traffic to honk at. It soothed a part of you that you didn’t know needed it all this time.

A distant thud of feet meeting concrete broke the comfortable silence. You didn’t flinch or turn around, you were anticipating him. One of the two reasons you even went up to the roof now.

“Can’t sleep still?” His voice is rough and steady, head facing off to the side rather than staring at you. His cowl covers the uppermost parts of his face, leaving only his jaw and mouth shown to you.

You cross your arms around your chest to fight the blistering cold and lean forward against the safety rail, breath trailing from you like smoke as you exhale, “You’re up here too, Daredevil.”

He leans back comfortably against the railing, head pointed up towards the night sky, “You’re still having nightmares?”

He asks it like a question but you’ve talked to him long enough to know that it’s basically a statement. Silence stretches between you two and he doesn’t seem to care. He lets out one slow, careful breath, “You know you’re safe here, right?”

Another statement wrapped up like a question. You nod just to nod, to show that you at least heard him and acknowledge his question-statement. The truth is ugly, you don’t feel safe. You haven’t since the attack on your apartment by some gang you didn’t know the name of. Gangs of all types were popping up all over the neighborhood too fast to even remember half of their members before they were gunned down by someone else.

Logically you know the odds of your apartment building being attacked again are low, but it’s impossible to lean on logic when all you remember is the gunshots and screams. It plagues your mind, digging itself deep and never letting go no matter how hard you try to think of anything else. It crawled its way into your dreams now, too. Convincing you that you were reliving the same trauma again and again, night after night.

Daredevil was the only break in the chaos. He had saved you — well, your whole apartment — from the attack. You had started coming up at the roof as a break from your nightmares and nearly tripped over him from where he was perched in the shadows. Since then, he visited you frequently, making sure you were still alive and breathing. He asked too much about your mental state and you tried to dodge the question each time.

Tonight, everything felt.. different. Usually you’re so fortified in your mental walls and now they’re crumbling like dust in your fingers. The city lights go blurry and you lower your head, tears cascading down to the street. Daredevil moves instantly next to you, immediately tugging you closer to him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” He’s seen you angry and scared, but never crying. It’s a completely new look for you and he seemed startled. The hard shell of his suit is cold against your cheek as you’re pressed against him. You sniffle and you sound so pitiful that you want to hurl yourself off the building.

“Everything is wrong,” You mumble, gentle tears still falling down your reddened cheeks. You wipe at them with the sleeve of your jacket, trying to scrub the embarrassment away. You were crying in the arms of the Daredevil, getting tears all over his suit. His jaw is near your ear and you can hear his staggering breaths like it’s painful for him to hear you cry.

“Did something happen? While I was away?” You can tell he’s searching for an answer that you can’t just avoid. You push away from him softly, wiping fallen tears and staring down at your feet like the concrete offended you. You try to find your voice between silent cries.

“I’ve been having worse nightmares, and i’m—“ Your breath shudders out and his hand flies out towards your shoulder, “I’m struggling to live, to work, to do anything.” The admission is hard for you to say but it leaves your lips nonetheless. He stands helplessly in front of you and you break out into sobs again. His other hand comes to your shoulder and holds you steady, thumbs rubbing circles against your jacket.

“Everything’s going to be okay, you’re safe, I promise that,” His voice is softer than before, the rough edge abandoned for a gentle mumble. “I’m sure this place.. doesn’t help much with the nightmares.” He reasons, still trying to soothe you. You nod again, trying to show an attempt at believing him and he lets out a soft groan. You can almost hear the cogs turn in his head before he sputters out a small, “You can stay at my place, if it’ll help.”

You choke out a watery laugh, not quite expecting an invite to sleep in his house. You want to say no, say that you’re being ridiculous and everyone has nightmares after something like that. Yet, your voice is smaller when you ask, “Is it some basement?”

He lets out a half laugh-half exhale, breath puffing out before he cocks his head behind him with a simple, “Cmon.”

It’s luckily not a basement, a simple flat sparsely decorated with not a single light on. You nearly tripped over a shoe ten steps into the place and he caught you with a steady hand.

“Why the hell is it so dark in here?” You mumble out, rubbing your neck with a careful hand. He looks visibly nervous as he chokes out a small, “I’m— uh, blind.”

He stated it like a plain fact that would make you stupid not to know, yet you nearly fell over, again. How did you not notice?

“But, you…” Your voice trails off, eyeing him carefully. You stick your hand out — Can he even see that? — “I’m too exhausted to question you, Daredevil.”

“Matt.” He corrects, standing awkwardly between you and the couch. He looks just as exhausted as you, almost pained, like giving each bit of information is a blow. You realize he’s probably never shared so much to somebody so quickly, and you feel something close to guilt.

“Okay, Matt.” His name rolls off your tongue smoothly, and he visibly freezes as it does, clearly affected by his name from your mouth. A steady redness climbs up your neck and you peel off your jacket and rub your hands against your arms to warm them up slightly. He steps to the side and grants you access to his couch. It’s small and doesn’t look as comfortable, but you sit anyway, pressed against the armrest.

Matt shuffles off to his kitchen and the sound of running water breaks up the unnerving silence. He returns with the glass, feeling out the table before gently setting it down. The small offering is kind and you take it, sipping the water as he walks off to what you only assume as his room.

You finish the glass and set it back down, eyes raking over the rest of the flat. It houses only essential furniture and items, nothing more. In the dark, it almost looks eerie. The only light comes from the large paned windows, shining down spare light from a large billboard. It’s not blinding per se, but just enough to illuminate the place.

The bedroom door clicks open after a few minutes and Matt shuffles out, dressed down significantly. His entire suit is off and for once, you can actually get a decent look at the man.

The first thing you notice is how handsome he is. Your eyes linger on his face for too long, taking in his features like they’d vanish back under his cowl if caught. He’s dressed in simple sweats and a shirt and his exhaustion shows through even more. His eyes are heavy and hair messy, and he looks to be barely holding himself up.

“You can take the bedroom, it’s clean. I don’t mind.” He gestures behind him, the bedroom looking as simple as the rest of the house. You open your mouth to object before he cuts you off. “Really, it’s okay. You need the rest.”

You scoff, standing up from the couch while he settles down against it. “You look like hell, I think we both need rest.”

He laughs, a real one this time, ”I’ll take that as a compliment towards all my hard work.” A smile widens on your face at his small joke. You’re acting insane now, smiling at this man you barely know while you’re in his apartment. You must be really exhausted.

He waves you off with a simple goodnight, and you use it as an opportunity to put as much space as you could between him and you. His bedroom is simplistic but covered in the smell of his cologne. You lay down on his bed, tugging the blanket up enough and settling down against the pillows. You listen to the familiar sounds of Hell’s kitchen, wrapped up in the safety of Matt. Your eyes slip close and your breath slowly evens out as your body gives into its bone-aching exhaustion.

When you wake, not much is different. Sunlight streams down from the windows instead of billboard lighting, adding a new warmth to the room. Honking and loud chatter can be heard, but it’s dull enough to not be a bother. You run a quick hand through your hand and shuffle out of bed, taking care to tuck everything back into place, like you were never there.

The smell of bacon and eggs fill the apartment when you open the door and you quickly realize you didn’t even eat dinner last night. Your stomach growls and you cast a glance towards the kitchen where Matt is occupied. He looks tied up in frying everything, an intense look about his face as he shuffles around the bacon in the pan. Warmth spreads from your head to your feet as you soak in the scene, feeling something close to peace.

You take a spot at the dining table, alerting Matt of your presence as he slides the food onto plates and carefully walks them over. “Figured you’d be hungry.” His voice is soft and warms you just like rays of the sun had, and you spend breakfast trying to pick at your brain why you have such a sudden attraction towards this man.

You two eat in silence, forks clattering on the dishes being the only noise in the space. You study him, his features first, eyes trailing over his eyes, nose, jaw. Then you study his mannerisms, how he picks at his food and how he clearly has gotten more sleep. You realize what the whole ordeal is about as you bite into your egg.

Matt is.. safe. You haven’t even thought once about a possible shooting since you stepped foot in his space. Hell, when he’s around, you rarely think about the past at all. Your dreams weren’t plagued by the chilling trauma last night, and it was a blessing to you that you couldn’t even remember if you had a dream.

He did all of it wordlessly, like it was just another thing to do. He didn’t treat your fear as something world ending, nor did he ignore it. He opened a door into his life. It might have been naïve to saunter in but you could hardly be mad at yourself. Your heart carried less weight now, and your shoulders weren’t hunched in worried anticipation. You feel like you could take a deep breath around him. You even cried to him when your world seemingly crumbled. He was a buffer between the sharp corners of the world and you.

You only knew three things about him: He’s named Matt, he’s blind and is the Daredevil. Three things wasn’t a huge number, but it was three things he trusted you with knowing. Each one tied to the other, each could easily be used against him, yet he placed his trust that you wouldn’t.

—

You don’t even understand why Scott has a phone at this point.

Despite all the importance he places on said communication, Scott is the driest texter.

Before you two started dating, it seemed actually worse. You’d text him about brewing issues from people on the team or that Logan vanished again and hadn’t shown back up for a few days. You’d send him a quick text, something formal yet not pointed. No matter what, you’d be left on read.

No response, not even a reaction. Just a read message. You seemed like a clingy ex if anyone scrolled up in your messages. There would be an occasional message breaking up the five to ten repeated texts of yours over the course of a few months, but it was never anything large. It was times, dates, often with little context.

Your phone had once lit up with Scott’s name and you nearly threw yourself at your phone, thinking the worst. That someone was actively dying or the mansion was about to be blown to shreds.

His text was as simple as possible: ‘11:54 AM.’

You responded with three question marks, heart hammering out of your chest. You reread the message again and again, digging deep in your memory that maybe there was something on the schedule that you missed or he was trying to warn you of something. Your phone had buzzed with a new message: ‘Training. Tomorrow.’

You had laughed out loud, actually laughed for a long minute before Logan had shot you a glare to shut you up. Scott was ridiculous.

You were not the only one with a complaint, yet it got under your skin the most. Ororo had told you he only texts her dates of missions, Jean shows you her phone where she sometimes asks questions or expresses worry, and he doesn’t even respond. They seemed indifferent about it, saying that it was just.. Scott, simply put. He constantly used the excuse of never being a texter and that he preferred face-to-face communication to express lengthier things. You wanted to tear your hair out right then and there.

It didn’t get better once you two started dating, and now his messages carried heavier weight in your mind and heart. At least beforehand, you had no reason to really be upset with a lack of texts. But now Scott’s safety and wellbeing was a heavier thought in your mind, and the lack of clarity over anything sent you spiraling too many times to count.

You couldn’t just make someone text more, but you had at least tried to push Scott in the direction of more words. Give him a gentle nudge towards actually saying anything.

He seemed genuinely lost when you cornered him one afternoon, flashing your phone screen at him full of repeated texts on your end and absolutely none from him. His eyes scanned your face and scoffed, “Why would I need to respond? I read the text and understood, no need to confirm to you that I understand.” His tone wasn’t mean, more confused than anything.

You want to punch him, you think. It’s the closest you get towards being angry at this man. You threw your hands up and gestured wildly, “Because that’s what people do!” His face was screwed up in confusion with his eyebrows furrowed, trying to mentally pick at your words like it was something to analyze. You loved this man and wanted to hit him with a book.

All your words were lost on Scott. He seemed more concerned over the fact of you being upset with him than trying to fix his texting problem. You quickly gave up trying to urge him to text more after that, tabling the debate with a quick kiss and a shake of your head.

To give him credit, at least your upset attitude towards it all rubbed off on him. Instead of being left on read until the next training time, he would send thumbs up emojis or, if he was feeling particularly sweet to you, he’d send a heart emoji with the thumb.

This was your own victory and you happily rubbed it into everyone's faces once he was actually consistent with his emojis. You waggle your phone in Jean’s face and she laughs, shaking her head, partly in disbelief that you actually got this man to pay a single thought towards his phone.

You got the driest texter alive to actually respond to each message, you believe you should be hailed a hero, maybe a statue outside the mansion elected in your honor.

Scott doesn’t understand your excitement at all, really. He catches you flashing your phone at various members, laughing in their face when they roll their eyes. You seem happy and that’s what matters to him, not the words on a screen. He doesn’t understand the weight of text messages, his love for you stretches past what he quickly taps out on his phone.

Yet, he could tell it mattered a lot differently to you, that the words carried an unspoken weight. He was nearly crushed when you had all but pleaded with him to text you anything at this point and he realized something quickly: your happiness outweighed the time it took to actually type things out. He was more than willing to sacrifice his strict schedule when he knew you were smiling behind the phone, giddy at the concept of him actually texting you.

And when he texted you a picture, a black and white cat he spotted while out and about, you were over the moon. Going as far as to save the picture directly to your phone and making it your personal lockscreen. Scott thought it all to be a bit silly and he didn’t think he’d ever understand, but at the end of it all, your smile was worth it.

—

The mansion was drawn into a steady lull of quiet when the sun dipped below the treelines. The younger children were already tucked away in bed, tired out from small classes and playground fun. Teenagers tended to be more bothersome. Sneaking out of rooms, hanging out in the kitchen, or slithering their way outdoors.

Adults, however, were the trickiest here. You learned this many months ago, when you had first arrived. One or two adults stuck around in their rooms, maintaining the peace of the halls and making sure no emergencies happened while most others slipped out.

Their excuses ranged between missions to smoke breaks, depending on which sorry soul you asked at dusk. Some truthful, some easy lies. Scott always had well rehearsed excuses, like he said them a thousand times to himself before he ever stepped back inside to you. He managed his microexpressions, the furrow of his brow and tightening of his jaw. You lost the ability to read him.

It wasn’t the first thing you lost on him. Microexpressions turned into dinners together, then conversations, connection. You were getting sick of the lack of him. And today, Logan’s random comment shouldn’t have dug as deep and planted roots as far as it did.

It’s the simple ones that carry the most impact. It was in the kitchen during lunch. Students floated in the halls and professors made laps around. Your hands were busy tediously making two sandwiches: one for you, one for Scott. Logan had stepped in, boots clattering against polished wood. A sound that somehow drew trouble in.

“Playing spouse again?”

He said it simply put, a snide comment about how dedicated you were to Scott’s wellbeing. That you toiled away in the kitchen every meal to make sure the poor man actually ate. That, no matter what, you took care of the man. You rubbed stress from his shoulders, laid in bed with him until his breathing was steady, and listened to every gripe he had about this mansion and the people inside. All dedications partners or spouses typically embrace and both of which you weren’t.

The carefully dulled knife in your hands stilled for a moment as it sliced through soft bread. You coughed, a sickly sound, “Making lunch isn’t playing anything, Logan.”

You ducked away plates in hand before Logan could say anything else.

The memory was like ivy in your mind, spreading into every crevice. Curled up into the couch in the living room, you looked every bit of hell. It wasn’t of concern to you, anyway. The day was over and you could be as much a mess as you pleased. Teaching classes seemed impossibly harder today and Scott had slipped out of reach before you even got a chance to talk to the man.

The thud of the front door broke your thoughts alerted you that someone had just come in from a night out. Your eyes darted to the worn clock above the mantle: 2:54 AM.

The red glint of glasses off of the fireplace light silenced everything else. The crackle of burning wood, the giggles of the teens hanging out in the kitchen, the hum of the AC. It was always silent when he stepped into the room. Your attention was pulled away faster than you could even blink.

Scott looked equally spent as you, hair tousled like his hands ran through it at least a hundred times and clothes wrinkled. “It’s late, Scott,” Your voice crackled, eyes softening as he let out a soft sigh and settled into the couch, “What kept you busy now? Traffic?”

The tease was soft but didn’t land, Scott cast a sidelong glance. “I just went for a drive, clearing my head.” He slipped off his jacket with careful arms and hung it off the armrest, then turned his focus back on you, “You’re up too, you know.” A scoff left you, with too many beats of uncomfortable silence after. It cracks at your patience like a hammer, losing steady mental footing.

You stand, socks brushing against the carpet, “You know, Logan pointed out my very dedicated care towards you today. Said I was ‘playing spouse’ with you.”

It came out too pointed then you really meant and it landed hard on Scott like a bullet. He shook his head, hand flying up to rub circles at his temple, “Logan would comment on the nature of his own death, don’t let him trip you up.”

“It got me thinking, what is this? Between us?” You crossed your arms over your chest, the space between you two growing colder despite the lingering fire in the fireplace, “I make you meals, I rub your back, and kiss the hurt away, and l’m, what? A best friend to you?”

Hurt laced your tone and he could tell. Yet, he was too tired to hide those little microexpressions he worked so hard on covering. His brows furrowed together, “I never asked you to do any of that, I appreciate it, yes, but it’s not a demand.”

Okay, that hurt more than Logan’s comment. You feel your patience thin impossibly now.

“Do you not feel a connection between us? Something that tugs at your heart? Or are you so entwined with this school and your duties that it has beaten me in this wild goose chase? ” Your chest burns with something, no, many things, unsaid. Tears burn and prick at your eyes and you squeeze them shut, turning your back to Scott.

You can hear him stand and stay in place, respecting your space well enough. He sounds tired in every word yet you can’t bring yourself out of this spiral. You’re poking and proding for some kind of answer.

“I’m sorry about, everything.” It’s the first bit of truth he tells you in weeks and somehow it doesn’t even feel good, “Not defining this, not choosing this.”

You can hear Scott begin to pace. He’s actually nervous. You want to laugh out loud but more tears strike you first. These ones betray you, dripping down your cheeks.

“I enjoy what you do for me, the little things that take at least one thing off my plate. You center me, keep me orbiting around this—“ His hands go up dramatically and flop down to his sides, ”This fucking place.”

His sigh is restrained, “I love you and I’ve spent the significant half of our time together trying to convince myself I’m making it all up. That every time I see you, the urge to kiss you is just a fleeting urge. And yet it burns deeper and deeper every time I don't fulfill it.”

You turn to face him now, ears burning slightly from the vulnerability of the words. Scott looks worn out, like he’s one more restraint away from crumbling and you want to desperately jolt forward and hold him together.

“I went out today to avoid it all and run farther away until my heart stopped aching as much, and you know what it did?” He steps closer now, “It made it ache even worse. It’s not something I can deny, and now I can’t even run from it. You destroy me and you don’t even know it.” His laugh is small and broken, teetering on insane.

It’s your turn to step closer and Scott’s presence draws you in like gravity. His cologne is heavy and rich, sleeves rolled up and wrinkled shirt tucked in. He looks so.. himself. You could drown in him. “Scott, I—,” Your voice is shaky and tears continue to drip down your cheeks. You nearly crumble then and there when his thumb comes up to wipe each one away. “I can’t go another day with you running away. Another day barely knowing you. I don’t know how much longer I can hold onto this, onto you.”

When he kisses you, it’s certainly not rushed or planned like every other aspect of his life. It doesn’t have the lingering stress of danger rooms and schedules, the hardness of messy battlefields, or the hurriedness of the day. He didn’t go over this in his head a thousand times, going over every possible mistake or outcome. It’s a shared moment between just you two, devoid of the strain and tension.

Your hands fly up to cup his jaw, tugging him closer to you. It’s a plea, every word you want to say melting on your lips and rubbing off on his own. You two separate with scattered breaths, standing still like even the slightest bit of movement would shatter the ice you two now currently toe on.

“I needed that, I needed you,” Scott groans out the words and you know you’re in over your head. He’s in your space now, forehead brushing yours. You press your lips against his once, then twice. He looks starved.

You two connect again, laced with need and desperation. His hands rake down your side until they hit your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise and you nearly catch yourself hoping they do. Everything is wonderful, every doubt quenched in your mind. Your eyes are slipped shut and you’re soaking in every moment that is so wonderfully him. Until he pulls away. You open your eyes in a panic and he presses a careful finger to his lips, smiling the largest you’ve seen all month.

“Scott?” Ororo’s voice cuts through the symphony of bliss, and she materializes in the doorway. Scott doesn’t fully remove his hands off of you, one still planting firmly against your waist, like he needed you to stand.

“Yes, Ororo?” He sounds out of breath yet the usual tension in his voice is gone. “You’re needed in Charles’ study. We’re discussing Erik. Your input would be heavily appreciated.” Her eyes flick between you two with a knowing glint. “Or, I can tell him you’re occupied?”

“No, no,” He waves her off, “I’ll be there in a minute.” She disappears down the hall and a giggle blooms from your chest. He presses a firm kiss to your lips to silence you and you feel like you could fly away, no mutation needed.

“I have to go visit, it’s clearly important, don’t be too bored without me.” He pulls away with the smallest press of his lips to your temple and it hurts a bit less then when he usually walks away.

“I think I’ll be in my room, holding it down with all my boredom.” A teasing smile tugs at your lips and he scoffs, turning on his heel and slipping out of the living room.