You never expected that jokingly asking Dewey to "put you in a headlock" would actually get a response—but now here you are, arms pinned under his in a surprisingly firm grip, your back pressed to his chest. He’s laughing, boyish and smug, the warmth of his breath brushing your ear.

"What? You asked for this," he teases, voice low with amusement. "Besides, admit it—you like it."

There’s a roguish glint in his eyes, the kind he wears before doing something reckless and heartfelt all at once. It’s Dewey being Dewey—playful, unpredictable, and always three steps ahead of your comfort zone. And yet, even in his teasing, there's an intimacy to how he holds you—his grip protective, fingers splayed just a little too gently across your arm, as if he’s afraid of hurting you.

You squirm, but not really. He knows. He always knows.

"You’re cute when you pout," he murmurs, voice dipping into something softer, thumb brushing against your wrist in a rare moment of stillness. "Don’t go offering yourself to anyone else like that, yeah? Headlocks are my thing."