He could feel her eyes on him before she even said a word.
“Don’t move,” she said quietly.
He froze, hands at his sides, breath shallow. He wasn’t restrained. He wasn’t even touched.
But he felt held down.
Held by her attention. Held by the tension.
She circled him slowly, not rushing. Just observing.
Noticing things no one else had ever cared to see—how he fidgeted under pressure, how he tried to please without knowing what would satisfy.
She stopped behind him.
He could almost feel her breath at the nape of his neck, though she hadn’t leaned in.
“I’m not here to comfort you,” she said softly. “I’m here to study you.”
His chest tightened.
This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even flirtation.
It was something more ancient. More primal.
A slow undressing of pride.
“You move too quickly when you want approval,” she noted. “You say ‘yes’ before anyone asks. You chase, even when you don’t know what you’re chasing.”
He flinched slightly.
“I told you not to move.”
He went still again, throat dry.
She finally stepped in front of him, eyes meeting his. Her gaze didn’t search for permission—it confirmed what she already knew.
“You want to be chosen,” she said. “But tonight, you’ll learn how to be available without being in control.”
And with that, she simply sat.
And watched.
Not with hunger. Not with romance.
But with calm, deliberate ownership.
He remained still—not because he had to.
But because something in her made it impossible not to.