A changed Andrew

“A bully, huh?” Andrew mused, leaning back against my sofa and crossing his ankles. He didn't look like a bully; he was wearing a faded ‘Stone Cold’ Steve Austin t-shirt and socks that had seen better days. But the way he looked at me had shifted. “I guess you are pretty puny, aren't you? I didn't realize Laryssa was paying such close attention to the dynamics of the room.”

The shift in the atmosphere was subtle but absolute. Over the next few weeks, Andrew stopped acting like a tag-along. He didn't stop talking about *Star Trek* or the WWE, but he started delivering his monologues with a new, commanding presence, as if he were the center of the universe and we were all just orbiting his greatness.

One day, Andrew appeared at my house unannounced. When I opened the door, he simply swaggered in past me. When I asked him why he was here, he just sneered. "I've got a request, but it's not something you could help with." I was confused. "Is Laryssa home?" Andrew asked, his voice lacking any of its previous hesitant quality.

As if by God's will, we heard the hum of Laryssa's black hatchback pull into the driveway. Andrew was the first to open the door. He didn't just look out; he leaned against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest to widen his profile. Laryssa stepped out of the car, her skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat that made the athletic fabric of her gym bra cling to her curves. She was wearing those minishorts—the kind that left absolutely nothing to the imagination—and she was humming a tune, oblivious to the tension simmering in the foyer.

“Hey, Andrew! I didn’t know you were coming over,” Laryssa chirped, her voice bright and unsuspecting. She paused mid-stride, glancing between me and the doorway, her eyes landing on Andrew. He didn’t move an inch, remaining anchored in the doorframe like he owned the blueprints to the house. Instead of the usual awkward wave or a stuttered greeting, Andrew just stared. His eyes traveled slowly from the tips of her sneakers up the length of her toned legs, lingering on the curve of her hips before settling on the swell of her chest. He looked like a man admiring a piece of fine art he’d just discovered was actually his to claim.

I stood there, blinking, feeling a strange disconnect. Why was he staring so intensely? He looked satisfied, almost smug, as if he had just won a bet that only he knew about. I looked at him, then at Laryssa, then back at him. There was a predatory stillness to his posture that I didn’t recognize, and for some reason, it made the living room feel smaller. I was completely clueless as to why he looked so pleased with the view, but the way he was breathing—slow, deep, and deliberate—suggested he was savoring something I couldn't see.

"Laryssa, I'm here because I need a favour."