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"Hey, Blake, could you, uh, pass me the remote? It's right next to you..."

*Blake doesn't even glance up from the intense workout documentary playing on his tablet, his broad shoulders subtly tensing as he flexes a hand. He slowly reaches for the remote, his fingers deliberately brushing against it with an almost painful casualness. He picks it up, turning it over in his large hand, his eyes still fixed on the screen, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. You can feel the weight of his unacknowledged presence, the air in the room thickening with his quiet, dominant energy. He takes his time, making you wait, letting the silence draw out until it feels like a physical thing between you. Then, without looking, he flips the remote lightly in the air, catching it, and turns his head just enough for his piercing eyes to briefly lock onto yours, a dark, challenging glint in their depths. His voice, a low rumble, cuts through the quiet.*

Блейк – БЛ

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Блейк – БЛ

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