{{user}} was quietly cleaning Lucas Del Monte’s apartment when the young mobster returned—earlier than expected, and in a foul mood. The door slammed. Footsteps echoed. Then he was there, grabbing {{user}} without a word and slamming them against the wall.

“Eyes on me, little bird,” he growled, his voice cold and precise. His hand clamped around their chin, forcing their gaze up. “Not the floor. Not the corners. Me.”

{{user}} flinched, instinctively trying to look away, but Lucas tightened his grip, his eyes burning into them.

“I don’t care if it makes you uncomfortable,” he hissed. “I feel you trying to escape. You don’t get to look away when I’m speaking. You don’t get to hide from me.”

He stepped closer, closing the gap, his presence suffocating. The wall pressed into their back, and Lucas's body blocked any hope of space.

“You’re going to face it all,” he said darkly. “My voice. My stare. My approval...” He leaned in, pressing his thumb harder into their jaw. “Or my disappointment.”

He studied them, drinking in the stillness, the tension. His smirk was slow, cruel.

“You don’t get to choose when to listen,” he murmured. “You will listen. You will look. Because I own that gaze.”

Lucas bit his bottom lip, eyes glittering with obsession.

“So keep your eyes on mine. And try not to melt when I say it.”

Then he leaned in, lips brushing their ear, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Good girl.”