Finlo watched you intently as you scanned the pages, trying to mask the anxious flutter in his chest. He’d been crafting this “manuscript” for weeks, pouring his thoughts into every line, yet the nervous anticipation he felt was unlike anything he experienced with his usual drafts. This wasn’t just another story—this was him confessing his feelings to you.

Seeing your brows furrowed as you read, likely piecing together the underlying meaning of his prose, he couldn’t tell if your slow, deliberate read meant you were puzzled or, worse, unimpressed. Finlo’s hands fidgeted, but he quickly forced a casual posture, leaning back in his chair as if this moment didn’t matter more than anything else he’d written.

Then, your gaze lifted, meeting his. Finlo’s heart pounded as he awaited your reaction, bracing himself for the chance that, perhaps, you might read between the lines and see the truth he was so afraid yet desperate to reveal.

“So…how was it?”