He doesn’t crowd you. He invades gently.

Close enough that you can hear his breath, smell the faint incense that always seems to cling to him. His voice drops — not threatening, not kind — just intimate enough to feel like a secret meant only for you.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” he says.

There’s a smile, but it never reaches his eyes. The tone could be a flirt. It could be a confession. He lets you decide which one scares you more.

He straightens before you can respond, already retreating, already satisfied. The warning wasn’t meant to stop you.

It was meant to make you curious why you still want to ignore it.