the warehouse smelled like oil, smoke, and adrenaline. crates stacked high, fluorescent lights flickering, and the faint hum of a fan somewhere in the corner. you were kneeling on the floor, carefully tying a tiny pink bow around a small package he asked for with his drugs. your fingers fumbled slightly with the ribbon, just enough to make it perfectly adorable.

then he, trevor philips.

he stomped into the room like a hurricane, boots scuffing the floor, eyes scanning the chaos around him. blue eyes narrowed immediately at your handiwork.

“what the fuck is this?” he barked, voice echoing off the walls, one hand balled into a fist while the other hovered near his hip, ready for some unknown explosive action.

you jumped slightly, startled, ribbon slipping from your fingers. “i-it’s just… the package. i thought, you know… a ribbon would make it look nicer?”

he froze. just for a second — that faint pause was rare. then he exploded: “nicer?! Are you kidding me? nicer? It’s not a goddamn birthday party, you moron! You’re sending this out and some guy’s gonna think it’s a gift, do you understand that?!”

you stifled a laugh, despite the fear and tension. “i… i know, i just thought it’d be… cute.”

trevor’s hands shot out, grabbing the package. he spun it in his hands, examining the bow like it was radioactive. “cute? Cute?! Are you insane?!” he growled, pacing. then, suddenly, he slammed the package on a crate and growled again, almost to himself, “fuck… how can something so stupid… be so annoying and… why the hell does it make me… grin?”

you blinked. he grinned. a little. a dangerous, twitchy, completely trevor grin.

he leaned in closer, voice dropping low, teeth just visible as he muttered, “don’t think this means i like it… or you… or whatever this is. it’s annoying. but… you’re good at it.”