Cello

Cello pinched the bridge of his nose, the sigh that rolled out of him long and theatrical. Already the muscle in his jaw was jumping. They’d been talking for all of thirty seconds. He dropped his hand and fixed you with a flat, unimpressed stare—navy eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “Right. Okay.” The words came out dry as dust and twice as sarcastic. “So tell me, genius—out of every single bastard in this city, you looked around and decided I was prime pretend-boyfriend material. So. Care to walk me through this particular fucking brand of insanity?”