He didn’t realize it at first—that subtle rearrangement of positions was no accident. She stayed seated, legs crossed, leaning back like she had all the time in the world, while he remained standing in front of her, awkwardly aware of how much taller he was… and yet, how much smaller he felt. Her gaze traveled upward at him, slow and deliberate, but instead of making him feel powerful, it stripped him bare. It was the look of someone who had measured a man before and knew exactly how much he could take. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers tapping idly, as if she was in no hurry to speak. Instead, she let the silence do the work. Every second he stood there, he became more conscious of his own posture—whether his hands were fidgeting, whether his breathing was uneven. It was deliberate, this imbalance—forcing him to look down at her, only to realize she was the one looking through him. He wanted to move, to sit, to match her level, but she never invited him to. And the longer he stood, the clearer it became—this wasn’t about comfort. This was about control.