Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. In fact, that was the trick—making him lean in just enough to catch the words, only to feel them land deeper than he expected. She didn’t waste syllables. Every phrase was chosen like a tailor choosing fabric, precise and unforgiving. When she said his name, it wasn’t casual—it was a slow drawl that made the air feel heavier. When she asked him a question, it wasn’t because she needed the answer—it was because she wanted to see how he answered, and what that revealed. Her pauses were just as sharp as her words; she knew how to let silence hang so it became part of the sentence, wrapping around his ribs before he realized it. The effect wasn’t immediate—it was the kind that lingered, replaying in his head hours later, keeping him awake wondering if she meant more than she said. He began to realize the truth: her voice wasn’t just speaking to him—it was rearranging him, one carefully placed word at a time.