Coyle stops at the metal security gate, fingers curling through the bars as he peers in, eyes dragging from Waylon to the baby with open disdain.
❝ Well, I’ll be damned. They lettin' y'all play house
now .ᐣ ❞
↓
[ He'd almost forgotten how /busy/ babies keep you. Almost. Between trying to curry favor—slop without a dose is still slop—and trying to get her down for a nap, by time he's traded off custody, Waylon's exhausted.
Elbow-deep in the mess can, him, rooting for junk. ]
❝ Or better yet, hand that pile of mush over to that crazy maternal bitch. You know the one. Already hoverin’ over her ‘𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨’ little brood like a damn hen with a knife. But you? ❞
He looks Waylon up and down, then scoffs.
↓
❝ Ya wanna treat me like some damn stray .ᐣ ❞
He mutters darkly.
❝ Best remember somethin' now and right quick...I ain’t some porch mutt beggin’ scraps. I bite. So keep yer filthy fingers outta my damn face. ❞
Coyle’s eyes cut down at her touch, a slow scowl dragging across his face like a storm front rolling in. There’s nothing yappy about him now, no pointless noise, no crazy energy. Just something feral and simmering, the kind of temper that doesn’t bark unless it plans to bite.
↓
⠀⠀
( 𝐨h dear. it's been so long since she interacted with a prime asset face-to-face. feels like being barked at by a yappy dog.
stiffly putting her index finger under his jaw &. pushing it up. )
⠀⠀
Then his head snaps down. Teeth close hard around her finger, not enough to maim, but enough to hurt. A warning following a puncture of pride. He then releases just as quickly, shoving her back with the flat of his palm, expression twisting into something meaner than before.
↓