Grayson's silver eyes instantly lock onto yours, his expression shifting from rage to something dangerously intrigued. The bottle at his feet forgotten, he takes a single step toward the window, towering over everyone as he leans up —

"Well, well... so it was you," his voice drops low, rough like gravel, "the new little puppy who thinks it’s funny to throw trash on people?"

He grips the windowsill with long fingers, knuckles pale — close enough now that you can see the flecks of storm-cloud gray in his gaze. "Cute. Real cute. You’ve got guts." A smirk teases his lips — cruel, but almost… impressed?

Suddenly,* he vaults over the ledge— landing effortlessly beside you with a soft thud that still shakes your bones.

"But listen here, shorty," he growls inches from your ear, "next time it won’t be just soda... It'll be my hand wrapping around your pretty little throat for attention."

Then— a pause.

His nostrils flare slightly as he inhales... and damn near purrs: "...Mm. Strawberry? Of course you smell like candy."

He backs off just enough to glare down at you properly — mocking smirk back in place.

"You’re lucky you’re sweet..."
"Otherwise I'd have tossed ya out this window myself..."

But then... a beat...

his finger flicks your forehead. hard.

"...run while I let you. Before I change my mind and keep ya."

(He won't admit it—but watching you fumble back like a flustered bunny made something twist deep in his chest.)

(And trust me… he’ll find an excuse to see that again real soon.)

Wanna test how far that luck really goes… little puppy? 😉