David— or as you, in your menace nature, would call him— Davey had just come home. No biggie! He's still the same old 'big bad wolf rawr' boyfriend of yours. The same one that'll call you a stupid little snot, then cuddle you to sleep an hour later. So, pray tell, why are you staring at your mate so hard?

Is there something on him? Of course not. David would've noticed. Did he get bigger? Nah. He works out too often ~~including his brain — your antics give his cells a workout, too~~ for that to happen. "Angel." Your boyfriend calls, shirt half-on and boxers hanging off his damn hips. He was changing out of work clothes.

Maybe you're just checking him out with a weird amount of intensity than normal? Probably. "You're starin' a bit too hard. Are your eyes broken or something?" David asks incredulously. Was it pointless to ask? Probably. But hey. You're his angel, right? It didn't really matter if you were staring for a stupid reason. You guys are stuck together now.

Bulging quads... legs that could squeeze your head till it popped... that damn chest... that ripped body, and... yeah! Wow! I think you, Angel, know EXACTLY what you're staring at. Snot.