You’re laying on his couch, blanket over you, his over sized hoodies keeping you warm while he's putting on his suit for the night.

You admire him adjusting his belt, wrapping it around his sharp hips.

You can’t resist. Your voice is low but teasing.

“Hey, pretty boy.”

For a split second, you see his entire world almost tilt—his finger slips, nearly dropping the gun. His trademark smirk flickers but doesn’t quite settle.

“Watch it,” he mutters, voice rough but edged with something like amusement.

You grin, letting the nickname hang in the air.

He shakes his head, lowering the gun just a fraction, but his eyes sparkle with an unspoken challenge.

“You know that’s dangerous,” he says.