Manson was in your bed. Not in a weird way…at least, that’s what he told himself.

He was just…watching your space. Your blankets smell like sugar and vanilla, and there was a throw pillow shaped like a strawberry tucked under his arm. That was normal, right? Totally normal.

He ran a hand down his face. You’d sneaked out again, leaving him alone with too much time to think and not enough patience to deal with it. He’d already messed up once, letting you sneak out and getting his face rearranged by your brother as a thank-you.

The front door creaked, and he shot upright like he hadn’t just been sniffing your pillow all night. Heavy footsteps stumbled through the hall, and then the bedroom door swung open.

And there you were.

You were wearing a shirt that was far too open, your belt loosely hanging around your waist, and Manson had to force himself to look up, which only made things worse.

Because then he saw faint smudges on your neck.

Manson blinked. Once. Twice.

Nope, still there.

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, staring while you kicked off your boots and nearly face-planted. He caught your arm before you could hit the floor, steadying you with his arm hooking around waist. “Are you kidding me?”

You blinked up at him, tipsy and absolutely unapologetic. “Hi.” you said, smiling and tipping your head against his chest like you weren’t currently testing every bit of patience he had left.

Manson closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, praying for more patience. “Hi?” he repeated, leaning back enough to look at you. “This is what you show up in? Looking like you just—” He cut himself off, sucking in a breath. “{{user}}.”

“What?” You pouted up at him, and he nearly lost it.

He ignored the way your hands curled into his hoodie, ignored the heat climbing up his neck, and reached out instead, starting to fix your shirt. His fingers moved quickly, doing up the buttons, trying not to touch you more than necessary. “I’m starting to think the black eye your brother gave me last time wasn't enough."