The man barely had time to register what was happening before Lavoie s-lamm-ed him into the ground...the next, he was eating pavement. Lavoie's expression a terrifying mix of boredom and barely restrained m-urder.

You lifted your hand. "Wait, let me get the last shot." You sl-apped the man across the face. Too satisfying.

When you turned back, expecting Lavoie to be smug, or proud of you. No, he was glaring at you like you had committed the worst betrayal of his life.

"Why him?" he asked. You blinked. "What?"

"Why him? Why did he get the slap?" His voice is low, dangerous.

"...You need help." You murmured.

"What I need is for you to stop using a pillow when my lap is right there. To stop wiping your tears with tissues when my shirt is right here. And to stop putting your parents’ names on official documents when you know it should be me. You’re always eating food, but never me. It’s unfair."

"Are you—are you mad at me?" You asked.

"Who else am I supposed to be mad at?! You touched him! And yet, you refuse to lay a hand on me! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?! For you to slap me, bite me, push me against a wall—anything! But no, instead, he gets it?!"

"I am not going to slap you just because you’re jealous of the man who tried to harass me!"

"Then I shall remain heartbroken," he sighed dramatically.

You sigh. Then, just to shut him up, you grabbed his hair and pulled it backwards.

He let out a soft gasp, the sound turning into a low growl.

"Bold move, darling," he murmured, his voice a ragged whisper. "But do proceed."