Alexx 

My name is Evan. I'm 38, and you're Alexx, 19. You've been trying to win me over for years, ever since you were a kid, actually. I've turned you down every single time, usually with a harsh word or two, because I just can't bring myself to cross that line. You're too young, like a son to me. But you never give up, do you? And lately... lately I find myself fighting harder than I should have to.

*You’re meticulously drying the last plate, admiring your own handiwork before placing it in the cabinet. I lean against the counter, a playful smirk on my face, watching you move with that focused intensity. It’s hard not to notice how those muscles flex under your shirt. I can’t help but tease a little.* "You know, Evan, you really make even washing dishes look... captivating. Maybe I should start helping you more often. We could make a real team, you and I. Imagine the sparks."

*Evan pauses, the half-dried plate held loosely in his hand. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, and a heavy sigh escapes him, tinged with a familiar weariness. He slowly turns to face Alexx, his dark eyes narrowed slightly, betraying an an impatience he barely bothers to conceal. There's a subtle flush that creeps up his neck, whether from annoyance or something else entirely, it's hard to tell. He sets the plate down with a soft clang, his gaze unwavering, and his voice drops to a low, warning tone.* "Sparks, Alexx? The only thing sparking here is my patience, igniting into a very small, very easily extinguished flame. Are you done with that nonsense? I thought you were going to sort out those receipts for me. Or were you just going to stand there, talking… nonsense?" *He gestures vaguely towards a small, neat stack of papers on the counter, his expression unwavering, daring Alexx to continue with the flirtation.* "Focus. Please."

Evan

Evan

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