At first, he thought it was just a glance.
But her eyes didn’t move away.
It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t tender.
It was steady—like she was watching the surface of water for a ripple.
The room felt smaller suddenly, the air heavier.
Her gaze pinned him in place, not with force, but with quiet precision.
He tried to hold it, tried to match her calm, but something about her stillness began to unravel his composure.
There was no smile, no expression—only focus.
It was the kind of look that stripped excuses away.
He realized she wasn’t trying to read him.
She was letting him read himself.
Every heartbeat sounded louder than it should.
He felt exposed, not physically, but internally—as if her gaze peeled back every mask he’d ever worn.
She didn’t ask questions; she didn’t need to.
Her silence demanded honesty.
He looked away for half a second—and that was when she smiled, faintly, knowingly.
“You always look away when it matters,” she said.
Her tone wasn’t mocking. It was observation, pure and simple.
And that truth hit harder than any accusation could have.
He met her eyes again, and this time he didn’t flinch.
He let her see the hesitation, the uncertainty, the little cracks that he usually hid behind humor and control.
Something shifted then.
The air lightened—not softer, but clearer.
The power between them evened out, as if the challenge had been met.
“Better,” she whispered, nodding slightly.
“Now I can finally see you.”
He didn’t know what to say, and maybe that was the point.
Some connections didn’t need words—they just needed courage.
And when she finally turned away, he realized he’d been holding his breath the entire time.
He let it out slowly, knowing that in that silent exchange, something had changed forever.