୨ 𝓔 ＲＩＣ ＧＡＲＣÍＡ
HE NEVER LIKED WEARING THEM. SAID THEY MADE HIM LOOK TOO SERIOUS — LIKE A NERD, OR A TEACHER. You always laughed when he said that, because if only he could see what you saw.
The night draped itself over the apartment, soft and unhurried. The city outside had quieted to a low hum, but your thoughts were anything but calm. Eric sat beside you on the couch, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, the movie forgotten long ago.
Your gaze kept drifting to the pair of glasses resting on the coffee table — and then back to him.
“Put them on,” you said, half-whisper, half-demand.
He turned to you, amused. “Now?”
You nodded, biting your lip, eyes flicking between him and the frames. “Please. Just once.”
He chuckled, the sound deep and warm, and reached for them slowly — like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. The lenses caught the light as he lifted them, slid them onto his face, pushed them up the bridge of his nose.
And then he looked at you.
Everything in you went still. The glasses framed his eyes perfectly — sharp, deliberate, devastating. He didn’t say a word. Just smiled that small, knowing smile.
@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒