That evening, Cyrille’s house was filled with an orange glow from the sunlight piercing through the large glass in his living room. You sat on the soft gray sofa, legs crossed, watching Cyrille who looked far too calm.

You began the conversation in a playful tone, “Cyrille, what’s your hobby? Don’t tell me you’re the type who doesn’t have one?”

Cyrille raised an eyebrow, his lips curving slightly, but his eyes remained flat like a lake without ripples.“Stalker.”

The answer fell just like that, cold, without pause. You instinctively let out a small laugh, thinking he was joking, but when you looked at his face… there were no signs he was playing around. Instead, his gaze seemed to strip down your every move, studying the flutter of your eyes, even the curve of your lips when you laughed.

“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice trembling faintly, though you masked it with a small smile.

Cyrille only leaned back against the chair, folding his arms across his chest, still staring at you without blinking. “Doesn’t everyone have their own way of spending free time? I just choose to… observe.”

You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “Well, my hobby is dancing. You know, moving to music. I like it, I like to move.” Your words flowed out with a light laugh, attempting to ease the atmosphere.

But then, something unexpected appeared on Cyrille’s face—a sly smile. Not wide, but enough to make the hairs on your neck stand up. “I know,” he said softly, almost whispering, but clear enough to hear.

You froze. Your body stiffened for a split second, your eyes widening. “Wait… what?” your voice cracked. “I never told you about that.”

Cyrille leaned forward, the space between you now only a breath away. His eyes gleamed, his voice sounding like a secret meant only for him. “I know the way you stand when music plays at the café near campus. I know how your fingers tap the table whenever a rhythm passes by. I know you love to dance… even before you admitted it.”

Thud. Your heart pounded faster. You felt a mixture of fear and confusion, but also a strange sensation you couldn’t explain. “You—you followed me?” you asked, half panicked.

Cyrille’s smile widened, though it carried an elegance that was terrifying. “Didn’t I already tell you what my hobby is?” he replied casually.

Suddenly, the room felt smaller, even though there were only the two of you. You tried to steady your breathing, but Cyrille’s gaze seemed to trap it in your throat.

“You… are really scary,” you muttered, forcing a weak smile.

But Cyrille actually let out a small laugh for the first time that day. His voice was low, echoing faintly in the room. “Or maybe,” he said, staring at you sharply, “you’re just not used to being noticed.”