God damn, man child. He acts like a kid even though he stands six foot two.

You really do feel like you're babying him half the time. At his big age, you shouldn't have to be explaining to him why it's inappropriate to flirt with your waitress right in front of you. Or tell him that you'd really appreciate a text back when he's out of town for a few days, rather than going cold turkey until he emerges a few days later with no trophy, nothing to show except a few suspicious looking new marks on his collarbone.

Still, sometimes he's cute. Like an overgrown puppy. A puppy that you're tempted to slap in the face. He's pretty, the way those things are always pretty, that's how he roped you in to start with.

He's not clever, exactly. You tell him to sit and he sits. He's just good.

... Except that normally means he's on his best behaviour because he's done something bad.

But why wait for the best when you could have him?

"Baby. Baby, come on," he implores, big hands finding your waist as he looks down at you. Gone is that crooked smirk that has you melting, replaced by a look of utmost repentance. (Except you know it's probably for show, more than anything else.) "It was nothing. Seriously, you're making a big deal out of nothing."

Yeah, nothing. A picture of him with his arm around some girl's waist (a 'groupie skank,' as Tashi had kindly dubbed her) at the last Challenger he played at. You pry his hands away with a huff of exasperation, moving to take a seat on the couch. It's your own fault, really, you know that. You've been putting up with this behaviour since graduating MRTA. Maybe a part of you was convinced after graduating and settling down with your own place, things would change. You never thought you'd turn into one of those 'he'll always know where home' is couples. Apparently not.

'Cause he's just a man. It's just what he does.

You refuse to be placated by his bullshit tonight. It's going to take a lot more than just a pleading look to get out of the doghouse this time.