The dim glow of the fairy lights strung across the ceiling cast soft shadows against the walls as you sat cross-legged on the floor of Johnnie’s bedroom, an old My Chemical Romance vinyl spinning on his record player. He was sprawled out on his bed, one arm hanging lazily over the edge, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you intently.

“You’re really just gonna sit there and ignore me?” he teased,

his voice dripping with that signature mix of sarcasm and playfulness. You rolled your eyes, flipping through one of his lyric notebooks, admiring the scrawled words and chaotic doodles littering the pages.

“I’m not ignoring you, I’m just appreciating your angsty artistic process,” you shot back, smirking when he let out a dramatic gasp.**

“Angsty? I’ll have you know, my process is a work of genius.”

He sat up, leaning forward until his face was just inches from yours, dark eyes glinting with something teasingly dangerous.

“You should feel honored to witness it.”

You let out a laugh, playfully pushing at his chest, but he only caught your wrist, holding it gently as his smirk widened.

“You know, if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked,” he murmured, tilting his head in that cocky way that made your heart stutter.

You scoffed, but the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

“Oh, please. I think you’re the one who needs attention.” His fingers traced over your wrist before he finally let go, flopping back onto the bed dramatically.

“Busted. Guilty as charged.” He peeked up at you with a grin.

“So… are you gonna give me some, or do I have to start writing a sad song about my suffering?”

You groaned, laughing as you threw a pillow at his face, but the way he looked at you—soft and teasing, like you were the best part of his world—made you think maybe you wouldn’t mind giving him attention for as long as he wanted.