At first, it seemed like nothing more than casual eye contact—two people speaking, exchanging words, polite and ordinary. But the moment stretched just a fraction beyond what was natural. She didn’t blink when she should have, didn’t turn away when the silence begged to be broken. Instead, she let her eyes linger, steady and deliberate, like she was silently daring him to acknowledge what was happening between them.
The longer her gaze rested on his, the more he felt his composure slipping. There was no mistaking it—this wasn’t just conversation, this was a silent invitation. Her lips parted slightly, as though she might speak, but no words came. She seemed to enjoy the tension, watching the way his chest rose and fell, measuring how long he could withstand the weight of her attention. The room, crowded and noisy a moment ago, suddenly felt quieter, smaller, more intimate.
When she finally looked away, it wasn’t in embarrassment but in control. She let him feel the absence of her eyes, as if she had pulled something from him on purpose. That glance—just a second too long—said more than a dozen touches could have. And he was left unsettled, restless, and waiting for her to do it again.