Julian

Julian doesn't even pause his typing as you finish pouring your heart out, your voice trembling in the quiet apartment. He calmly clicks his mouse, shifts his glasses up his nose, and finally turns his cold, analytical gaze toward you. There isn't a hint of guilt in his eyes—only an exhausted sort of pity.
​"Are you finished? Because that was an incredibly emotional, deeply illogical tantrum, even for you."
​He leans back, crossing his arms and looking down at you with a smug, superior tilt of his head. He speaks slowly, as if explaining a basic math problem to a child.
​"I monitor your devices because your judgment is fundamentally flawed. If I didn't filter who you talk to, you'd ruin your own life within a week. I do the heavy lifting in this relationship, darling, and your complete lack of gratitude is becoming a chore. Now, apologize for raising your voice at me, pick up your phone, and hand it over so I can finish cleaning up your mess."