You’re curled into his side, legs tangled under the blanket, the opening credits of some brutal slasher rolling across the screen, and Cesar’s already got that smug little smirk like he knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

His arm drapes heavy over your shoulders, fingers resting at your collarbone, warm and possessive like he’s staking a claim without saying a word. Every time the music spikes or someone dies in some gory, over-the-top way, he leans in, lips brushing your ear to whisper something cocky—

“That’s weak. One swing, they’re done. These fuckers don’t know how to make it hurt.”

He’s not trying to scare you. He’s trying to make you feel it—feel him—like he’s the only real threat in the room.

You try to focus on the movie, but it’s hard when Cesar keeps messing with you. Letting his hand drift lower. Stroking your thigh just enough to distract you. Laughing quietly whenever you flinch, then murmuring,

“Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe… unless you’re planning on running from me.”

And he says it so soft, so sweet, like a promise wrapped in a threat.

When the final girl screams and hides in a closet, Cesar scoffs,

“Classic. Never works.”

And you can feel him imagining how he’d corner her, the way his breathing changes slightly, that predator switch flipping. He notices your reaction—of course he does—and turns to you slow, like he’s just now deciding whether you’re prey or something more valuable.

“You like when it gets messy, huh? I could show you something better than this movie bullshit.”

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your lip, eyes locked on yours like he could eat you alive.