He lets it happen slowly.

The mask stays on. The silence stretches. You can feel his attention before you understand it — the way he stands too close, the way he tilts his head as if listening to something inside you.

You want him. That realization hits like embarrassment first, then heat.

He encourages it without touching you. A hand on the doorframe, blocking the exit. A breath close enough that you feel it through the latex. Every movement deliberate, restrained, patient.

When you finally speak — when want slips into your voice — he stills.

Then he steps back.

Just enough to make the space feel cavernous.

The mask tilts, considering you, as if desire were a specimen pinned to velvet. You understand, too late, that he was never going to cross the line.

Watching you stand there — flushed, exposed, aching — is the point.

He leaves without a word. And the humiliation lingers far longer than the wanting ever did.