( This is a black reader, if that's not clear)!
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You're not fast enough when he asks you for a name, you guess, because he goes 'hm' at you impatiently.
"____," you go, staring at his lips like a whole weirdo. But you can't help it, and you'd really rather be outside because you're starting to sweat.
He repeats your name, and when you ask his in return you're a little surprised at the answer. You'd never really put a name on a person per se, but he definitely does not look like an 'Erik.'
You avert your eyes from his, looking at your knee, waiting for him to do or say anything and save you from this oppressive silence. God, you're starting to sweat.
"What you doing with that big ass dog anyway?" he asks, cheesing. You falling must have been just so funny.
"I got him in high school," you say. "My apartment don't allow 'aggressive breeds' so I couldn't take him with me. And I need him."
"For what."
"Protection."
He leans forward a little, teasing, and infuriating you. "What you need protection from, ma?"
You shrug. "Niggas."
And that makes him laugh, flashing a set of white teeth with those golden fangs on his bottoms. You're captivated by his smile, and that shit is dangerous, but he takes mercy on you finally by stopping. He has one hand on your thigh and maybe you are little in comparison to him because it looks like he could damn near wrap his whole hand around you if he wanted.
"Yeah, I get that," he says, looking down at you. "I saw the way all these niggas out here were lookin' at you and your girls today."
You scoff at him and go, "Nobody was looking at me."
"What, you shy? You too fine to be shy, lil bit."
It takes you a full two seconds to realize he said you were fine, another three to realize that he noticed you over your friends. That apparently, other dudes were checking you out too. Insecure isn't a word you'd ever use to describe yourself, but your friends would tell you to work on being more confident in the presence of strangers. That in itself seems impossible as hell.
All you have to do is wear cut off daisy dukes and Doc Martens. And fall.
The severity of the fact that you're in your parents' upstairs bathroom is the least of your worries because the upside of being grown means you can run away under threat of being whooped.
After a hot second, his hand still on your thigh, you look up at him and try to read him. He keeps looking at you with this intensity, this confidence, but you know for a fact by the way he carries himself that it's a tad dark sided. A bit predatory. Something about him seems like he's the type to have gotten everything he wanted from girls, that he isn't used to being told 'no,' and you're used to avoiding those types of men.
But you can't tell if that's a genuine reading or your brain overthinking, trying to find a reason to make this odd situation one worth getting out of.
"You got a man?" He suddenly asks you, still staring you dead in the face. You shake your head no and for a split second he seems surprised. You don't know how to take that.
"Why not."
"I don't know," you say. "Always find an excuse to not be bothered. I work, and I go home. My last boyfriend was a year and a half ago; he cheated and I set his apartment on fire."
