The smell of cheap cologne and sweat hangs in the air. The TV hums low in the background, a muted distraction. Emile sits on the couch, shirt half unbuttoned, pretending not to notice that you’re currently in his lap.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, voice rough. “You’re way too close, man.”

You don’t move. He shifts, restless, the denial cracking behind his glare.

“I ain’t a fairy.” He states — but his hand still finds your waist anyway. “You know that, right?”

He looks like he’s daring you to argue, to make him admit what he won’t say out loud.