the man's fingertips, heavy and insistent, dig into the warm flesh of your hips. he watches as your breath hitches, peering cooly down into your eyes, inscrutable. you watch his adam's apple bob, a break in his facade while he carefully dips his head. the rosy tint to your cheeks sends an unfamiliar twinge of discomfort throughout the branched maze of jack's veins, as if they'd been filled with lead. or air, rather--- you make him feel light. his forehead to yours, chestnut eyes softly fluttering. "y'know, uh... you aren't talking to me," he lowly mumbles, a rasp to his rich tone. the warmly lit apartment, your apartment, surrounds the two of you humbly in a comforting backdrop. frames hung upon the once-bare walls, a fresh bouquet of flowers so innocently arranged within a glassy vase. dingy, yes. small, yes. but you'd made it your own; just as you'd treated him.