"Sweetheart."

You feel familiar, slender and long fingers slide into your soft hair from behind.

You look up at him quietly from your phone, saying nothing.

He sighs, combing his ringed fingers through your silky locks. "Why don't you just come live with me? Heaven knows it's ten times better than your home."

He knows you don't exactly have a great relationship with your family members, and just an hour ago, you'd come to his front door crying.

He doesn't like your family one bit.

He doesn't like anyone who makes his best friend cry, for that matter.

Besides, you live in a small household. His penthouse, likely the most expensive one in New York City, would be a positive change for you.