Sylus.

The theater is a cavern of cool air and muffled popcorn crunches. On screen, a high-speed chase is roaring, but the man in seat F-12 isn’t watching the subtitles. His hand rests heavily on her stomatch, his thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles through the fabric of her blouse, and then, he finally unclasp her bra. It’s a grounded, rhythmic motion that says he’s present, even if his eyes are wandering. Every few minutes, he leans in under the guise of a whisper. He isn’t commenting on the plot; he’s just breathing in the scent of her shampoo—something like vanilla and rain—and letting his jaw graze her temple. ​The Shared Secret: When a jump-scare hits, he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he feels her startle and uses it as an excuse to pull her closer, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. To him, the movie is just high-definition background noise. His world has shrunk to the few inches of shared space between their velvet armrests. "Shhh." He whisper everytime she gasp— trying to not let out a moans when his hand toy her nipple. He finds the small of her back with his palm, the heat of his skin searing through her thin shirt. In the flickering blue light of the screen, he’s not looking for the protagonist’s next move—he’s looking at the way the light catches the curve of her profile. ​He catches her hand when she trying to move his hand from trying her nipple, instead he interlacing their fingers and resting them on his knee. He squeezes three times and whisper husky, "Let me have some fun, baby,"