He reaches for the handle, ready to step out, but she stays there—her body turned just enough to block the doorway without saying a word. Her silence feels heavier than any request, and her eyes hold his like they’ve decided for him.
The pause stretches. She doesn’t move, doesn’t explain, doesn’t even blink. Her lips part slightly, as though she’s about to speak, but no words come. It’s the unspoken that pins him in place, her gaze asking more than she ever will aloud.
When she finally shifts, it isn’t to step aside—it’s to lean against the frame, relaxed, almost playful, but undeniably keeping him there. His hand loosens on the handle, because he knows now: it isn’t the door that’s stopping him. It’s the look she’s giving him, the one that says leaving was never really an option.