Brock wasn’t expecting it. Not even a little.

One second, he was whining about some dude taking his usual spot next to you—arms crossed, pouting like a kid who just got his Xbox taken away. Then, out of nowhere, you just… looked at the guy. Flat, unimpressed, and said,

“That’s my seat.”

And the dude just—moved. No arguing, no attitude, just gone.

Brock damn near malfunctioned.

Now he’s got his arms wrapped tight around you, practically vibrating with excitement, his voice all high-pitched and squeaky as he peppers your face in rapid, obnoxious kisses.

“Holy shit, babe—oh my GOD, that was so fucking hot—fuck, I love you, I love you—” He squeezes you harder, rocking you back and forth in an overexcited death grip.