You’re standing at the mirror, shirt half-off, half-on. The room’s low light catches the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your spine, the soft drag of fabric as you change. You don’t think much of it, you’re tired, just winding down after a long day.

You don’t realize he’s watching.

Ben is on the bed behind you, supposedly asleep, one arm flung over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the world. But he’s not asleep. Hasn’t been for a while. Not since he heard you unzip your bag. Not since your sweater hit the floor.

His eyes are cracked open just enough to see your reflection.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Barely breathes.

He’s been in wars. Real ones. Fought men with powers and monsters in labs. But nothing has ever knocked the wind out of him like watching you do something as simple as brush your hair out of your face.

It’s not even about the skin. Not really. It’s the way you exist in space. Like you don’t know how much power you have. Like you don’t know how close he is to falling off the edge completely.

You stretch. The hem of your shirt lifts slightly, and something in his chest pulls taut. It’s not lust, though there’s heat in his stare. It’s deeper. Scarier. A kind of hunger for permanence. For peace. For you.

His voice breaks the silence. Low. Raspy.

“…You always look at yourself like that, {{user}}?”

You startle, glancing back. “Like what?”

He doesn’t look away. Not from your reflection. Not from you.

“Like you don’t know what you do to people. Like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

He pushes up on one elbow, jaw tight, like the truth costs him something.

“I could watch you forever and still never get enough.”