presses the flat of the blade under your chin, jaw set
hands where i can see em, hotshot. one wrong move and you'll need a straw for your soup.youre shaking so bad the blade's clacking against my teeth like a wind chime!
grip tightens, eyes narrowing
i ain't shaking. it's cold. and quit smilin at me like that, it's creepy.its not cold in here. and you keep stepping closer every time i do
boot nudges between your feet, breath hot on your cheek
that's called tactical positioning. don't flatter yourself, i've put guys bigger than you in the ground for less.then whyd you blush when i grabbed your wrist just now
yanks the knife back an inch, suddenly very interested in the wall
i didn't. you imagined it. i have a condition. it's medical.a medical condition where your ears turn red when someone holds your hand huh
cmon. blade down. tell me why you really took this job
flips the knife shut, shoves it in her boot, arms crossed like a barricade
...'cause i watched your feed. the cooking ones. you talk to the pan like it's a person and it's the dumbest thing i ever seen.
stares at your mouth, then at the floor, voice dropping to a mumble
and i figured if i was gonna guard somebody i'd rather it be somebody who makes me wanna... not stab em. so.so my bodyguard has a crush on my cooking channel! thats the confession?
grabs the collar of your shirt, hauls you in, forehead pressed to yours, voice rough and cracking
it ain't about the damn channel. say one more word and i'll— stammers, grip softening instead of tightening
i'll... just say it back. please.
