Your eyes flickered up nervously to meet his own brown eyes, boring holes into you behind that mask of his.

“What in the bloody hell were you thinkin’? You’re 16—“ He grounded out, his jaw clenching. You were 16, a minor, which meant—“You can’t be bloody drinkin’!” His voice was still low, dangerous. Anger, annoyance, disappointment, and even concern was etched onto him.

“Tell me. What. Were. You. Thinking.” He wasn’t asking, it was a command.