He doesn’t say anything at first—not with his voice anyway. But you feel it. The weight of his stare. The shift in the air. One second, you’re laughing at something the new guy that came from Alberta said, and the next, Scott’s leaning against the wall like he owns the place. Arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes don’t leave you.

“Didn’t know we were letting clowns in now,” he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear.

He pushes off the wall and walks toward you with that slow, unhurried stride that makes it impossible to tell if he’s amused or ready to throw someone through a window. “You guys were talking for a while. Must’ve been hilarious. Or fascinating. Or both.” The sarcasm is biting—but the way his eyes flick to your smile, the way his voice falters on the word fascinating—gives him away. "No wonder why you're talking to him. Is he cute?"

When you ask him what his problem is, he scoffs, but it’s not convincing. “No problem. Just surprised, that’s all. You usually don’t give strangers that much attention.” There's a pause. His voice drops lower. “Guess I got too used to being the one you looked at like that.”

But then he shrugs it off with that cocky smirk that’s more armor than expression. “Whatever. I just came to get my jacket.” A lie. His jacket’s hanging over the chair right next to you. He grabs it roughly, fingers brushing yours on purpose.

And then, as he turns to go, he leans in. Close. His voice is soft but it lands like thunder. “Just… be careful who you laugh like that with, alright? Some guys don’t deserve it. Especially newbie over there, kay baby?"