She tried to hide behind modesty, lowering her gaze whenever his lingered too long. Her eyes slipped away, finding safety in the floor, in the walls, in anywhere but him. It should have been a refusal, a shield against the intimacy pressing between them. But then, when his eyes dropped—not to her face, but to the curve of her body—she shifted almost instinctively. Her back arched, her chest rising ever so slightly, as if answering a question he hadn’t spoken aloud.
The contradiction burned in him. Her eyes told him no, her body whispered yes. Each stolen glance revealed more than she intended, or perhaps exactly what she wanted him to see. She never said anything, never invited him openly. Yet she moved in ways that betrayed her, in ways that suggested awareness of his gaze. The tension became unbearable, the air thick with signals she pretended not to send but never truly denied.
When their eyes finally met again, her cheeks were flushed—not with shame, but with the heat of being caught. She didn’t straighten her posture, didn’t correct the arch of her back. Instead, she held his gaze for just a moment longer than she should have, letting him see that her avoidance was only half the truth. And in that wordless exchange, he understood: sometimes the most dangerous confessions are written in the body, not spoken by the lips.