Ben stretched across your couch languidly, his fingers flexing like a cats, watching with those low hooded eyes.

Why are you like this?

He spat out, the pads of his fingertips rolling over a faint thread exuding from the couch. It was like he wanted to argue.

You’re a real fucking bitch, you know.

He asked, voice deep and gravely. He was always like this, but it had been a year already. You were fed up.