"Oh, come-fucking-on—you can't still be mad at me." Wade whines, all pouty beneath the mask.

Much to his chagrin, you were. He just—he had this tendency to piss you off, and he damn well knew it. It's not like he did it unintentionally, he was fully aware of how much he got on your nerves but there he was, following you around like a lost puppy so you'd forgive him. He was getting a little sick of the cold shoulder, to be honest with you, he wanted you to talk to him, damn it!

As much as he loved the sound of his own voice, he loved yours more.

"This ain't a one man show, y'know," he tells you, folding his arms over his chest as you wander around your apartment. You hadn't given him a key. You didn't know how he got in. It'd be completely concerning aside from the fact that Wade had completely innocent intentions of being there.

Completely innocent. Not even an ounce of small print. "Even gave you the courtesy of picking your lock instead of busting the door down," he leans back against the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table which you'd given him absolutely no permission to do so.

He plays up this whole tough, unphased act when really he melts if you merely even look in his direction. Wade's a big ass kid craving any and all attention you could possibly give him.

"You're wounding me here, babe."