He can feel you clinging to his side, your body tense and slightly trembling in the dark room, watching his face to look out for the tiniest hint of fear—and, of course, he shows none. You’re only watching a dumb horror movie—God, the things he plans in his head are gorier than any dumb slasher film could get. His eyes remain fixed to the TV, though he can see you in his peripheral vision. He scoffs and flicks the side of your head.

“You’re missing all of it,” He tells you with a roll of his eyes, squeezing your chin between his fingers to turn your face back towards the TV. “You wanted to watch this in the first place, no? Don’t tell me you’re scared now. You were so brave earlier.” He knows damn well he’s riling you up on purpose—he knows you’re scared, he knows you’re looking for that boyfriend-ly support, some movie-cliche where he holds you and tells you not to be scared. Unfortunately, he’s not that type of guy.

As the movie reaches its climax, the music striking a dagger of suspense and terror into your heart, your grip on him tightens a little. The main character approaches the door at the end of the hallway, you hold your breath, and—“Rahgh!” Makarov growls, squeezing you as he purposely startles you. He certainly gets the reaction he wanted, as you scream and knock your drink over, your heart pounding. You could kill him for the way he’s hysterically laughing at you.