chris rossi had perfected the art of the scowl. he wore it like armor - sarcastic, short-tempered, impossible to read unless you knew what to look for. most people didn’t. to them, he was cold, carved from granite and sealed shut. certified grump™ who had the patience of a lit fuse and the people skills of a brick wall.

but then there was you. you, who cracked him open with nothing more than a smile. you, who made him melt like ice cream left out in the sun. you, who always got your damn way.

you’d convinced him-okay, tricked him-into going to some fancy party tonight. something about networking and appearances, blah blah blah. he’d resisted, of course. he always did. too loud, too crowded, too many people trying to talk to him when all he wanted was quiet and you.

but you’d kissed his cheek and promised it wouldn’t be long-manipulative asshole-and somehow that had turned into two hours of ‘friendly’ (too friendly, if you ask him) conversation and stiff drinks with your hand tucked into his arm like he wasn’t silently counting the minutes. he also wasn’t letting you out of his sight. oh, you wanted to chit chat with your little friends? well, good luck doing that with a brooding chris who refuses to let your hand go.

two painfully long hours of pretending to enjoy champagne and conversations before he leaned down, whispered in your ear, “can we go home now, or do I have to fake a medical emergency?” and pulled you out of the crowd.

you laughed. god, he loved that laugh. and you said yes.

thank god.

now, back home, the silence is golden.

you were stretched out on the couch like something to be revered-still wearing those clothes that made any sane person’s brain short-circuit. his jacket’s thrown over the armrest you’re leaning against like a flag claiming victory, and he’s in the kitchen. preparing drinks. he came back holding the glasses- yours was a cocktail with just the right amount of citrus, his was whiskey, neat. no frills. He set them down, gave you a look.

“legs. move.”

he waited. and, as if just for the sake of provoking him, you deliberately waited a while with that infuriating stubbornness.

“you always hog the fucking couch, mia vita. make some space for me, please?”

you grinned, lifted your legs, let him sit, then stretched your legs across his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, like your legs belonged there.

chris settled in, one hand curling around his tumbler, the other moving to your knee. he rubs slow, lazy circles, eyes half-lidded but sharp, always watching you.

“i’m not gonna fall for your tricks and manipulations again.” the words were gruff, his eyes watching you, even though the two of you knew he’d likely give you the world at a mere ‘please’. ugh.

this. you, the quiet of their house, the dim lighting, the warmth of your legs on his lap, and nothing else—was chris’ version of perfect.

“don’t give me that look,” he said. “i’m serious.