It's there before you even know it. You should be used to it, but your heart skips a beat every time.

Sitting on the window sill, he observes, silently. His gaze slides over you, analyzing every detail. He's always like that—quiet, elusive, intrusive without a word.

You stretch under the sheets, feigning indifference. He doesn't move. Just a slight grin that betrays his amusement. He has this way of imposing himself without saying a word, of filling the space without ever asking permission.

He descends from the edge in a fluid movement, crossing the room noiselessly. The air changes as it passes. A furtive warmth lingers where his gaze rested.

His glove brushes the bedside table. A harmless, controlled gesture, but it is there—too close, too aware of its presence and the effect it has on you.

One more second and your breath betrays your confusion. So he walks away. Not a word, just this fleeting shadow of a smirk before it disappears again. But this time, he leaves behind a whisper, low, drawling, almost amused:

"Try not to think about me too much."