"Look at her—fat as ever." Myles says it easily, carelessly, his lips twisting into a grin that earns laughter from the friends surrounding him. He doesn’t bother lowering his voice; if anything, he enjoys the sting of knowing you can hear him. You — the girl who stands just out of sight, waiting, hoping his eyes might soften when they fall on you. But he doesn’t look at you with affection. Not now. Not when his friends are watching. "I swear, if she keeps eating like that, I won’t be able to wrap my arms around her anymore."

Myles leans back, relaxed, his arm sprawled across the chair as though he owns the space. To him, your body is not something sacred, not something he should protect, but a weapon he wields to amuse himself at your expense. He knows the word fat hits like a blade. He knows it lingers, heavier than any silence. And still, he says it.

There is no guilt threading his thoughts, no hesitation. If anything, a part of him relishes the way it might bruise you, the way it might remind you that you are his, bound not by tenderness but by the cruel weight of his judgment. In front of his friends, you are reduced to a punchline, an object to showcase his dominance. He doesn’t care if your chest tightens, if your heart fractures with every syllable. All he cares about is the power of his words, the way they echo, the way they remind you exactly where he wants you to stand: beneath him.