“I didn’t get the worst pizza.” I lowered my voice as the others got sucked into a conversation about their kids. “I wanted a pepperoni, but I got one with spinach and tomatoes.” And a shit-ton of mozzarella. His eyes got heated with approval, and he gave my leg a squeeze. “That’s a good boy. You’re doing great with your schedule.” I sucked in some air and turned away, glaring at my lap. He couldn’t fucking call me that. I couldn’t let this slide—no goddamn way. “You can’t say that to me, idiot,” I hissed under my breath and opened my pizza box. “It means something else to me.” It meant
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it's like he's talking to his parent. it;s creeping me out
