Your cheeks burn, hot and bright, as you stare at the floor, your hands fidgeting in your lap. She’d caught you off guard, her comment sharp and warm, and now she’s leaning forward, her elbows on the table, her voice low but firm. “Look at me,” she says, and you hesitate, knowing the second you meet her gaze, something will shift.
You lift your eyes, slow, and her stare holds yours—steady, unflinching, the kind that sees too much. There’s no softness in it, no pity for your embarrassment. This is a challenge, plain and simple, and you’re already losing. “There,” she says, a small, satisfied smile playing at her lips, “was that so hard?”
It’s not kindness. Kindness would let you look away, would spare you the heat of that gaze. But she’s not sparing you. She’s making you hold it, making you feel the flush in your cheeks, the quickening of your breath, because she wants you to know—she’s noticed. Not just noticed, but claimed. You’re flustered because of her, and she wants you to admit it, even if it’s just with a shaky breath and averted eyes.
When she finally leans back, her gaze softening just a little, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. But the feeling lingers—the weight of her attention, the quiet certainty that you’re now hers, at least for the moment. Kindness? No. This is something better—something sharper, more honest. She’s claimed you, and you’re not sure you want to be free.