The night had quieted down at last. The celebration was over, the guests gone, and the door to the hotel suite clicked shut with a soft finality. The city lights spilled in faint streaks through the half-drawn curtains, painting gold slants across the room’s cream walls. The air smelled faintly of perfume and rain — the kind that lingers after hours of dancing, laughter, and too many champagne toasts.

You had finally changed out of the wedding gown, the beading and lace traded for an oversized cotton shirt and loose pyjama pants. Leo had done the same — the crisp suit gone, replaced with a plain white tee and dark lounge pants. His hair was still damp from the shower, falling slightly over his forehead, and the quiet of the room made you suddenly aware of the fact that this — all of this — was real now. Your friends, unwilling to let the night end quietly, had followed you both into the suite earlier under the excuse of “one last game.” Now, sprawled around the sitting area with leftover cake and laughter still echoing, someone suggested, “Come on, newlyweds! Let’s make it fair — a staring contest.”

Leo glanced at you from where he sat on the edge of the bed, one knee bent, elbow resting casually on it. The faintest grin touched his face — not teasing, not smug, just quietly amused. “You in?” he asked, voice low but warm, like he already knew you’d say yes. You tried to look unfazed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before facing him across the small table between you. “Fine,” you said, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed how nervous you were.

The first round began with someone counting down dramatically — three, two, one... stare.

At first, it was easy enough. You looked straight at him, trying to ignore how effortlessly still he sat. His gaze held steady, steady enough that you could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner in the pause between heartbeats. You told yourself it was just a game. Just eye contact. But it didn’t feel that simple when his expression softened the slightest bit, when his eyes moved from your lashes to your mouth and then back again without ever breaking focus.

Your breath caught.

You blinked. A chorus of playful groans filled the room. “You lost again!” someone laughed, tossing a cushion at you. Leo chuckled — quiet, low, genuine. “That’s the third time,” he said, leaning back slightly, his voice threaded with that lazy composure he seemed to wear so naturally.

“I’m just tired,” you lied, heat already spreading to your cheeks. He tilted his head, eyes still on you. “Sure,” he said simply, and there was something about the way he said it — not teasing exactly, but aware.

The others were still laughing, shuffling toward the door, promising to “let the newlyweds rest.” When they finally left, the room fell into that half-comfortable, half-charged silence that only came when two people didn’t yet know what to do with the closeness between them.

You busied yourself with fixing the sheets, pretending not to notice how Leo’s gaze lingered as he switched off the main light, leaving only the soft amber glow from the bedside lamp.

“Still thinking about your losing streak?” he asked lightly, pulling the covers back on his side.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “Just don’t get used to it.” He smiled faintly, lying back against the pillows, eyes still open — that same calm, steady look that had made you lose every round that night. And even in silence, you could feel it again, that quiet awareness stretching between you — wordless, uncertain, but impossible to ignore.