The dining room buzzed with laughter and the clinking of glasses, the golden glow of candlelight casting soft shadows on the table. The conversation flowed easily, stories exchanged, jokes shared — but none of it held your attention. Not when Michael was sitting directly across from you.

He was older, maybe early forties, the kind of man who wore his age like a badge of honor. Salt-and-pepper hair, neatly tousled, framed a strong, chiseled jaw. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes only added to his allure. Every movement he made was deliberate — the slow swirl of red wine in his glass, the absent brush of his fingers along the rim. But it was his gaze that lingered, unwavering.

Dark brown eyes caught yours from across the table, a subtle amusement flickering behind them. He’d been watching you all evening — no, studying you. The heat of it was unbearable, his stare igniting a spark beneath your skin. And the worst part? You couldn’t seem to look away.

“Something on your mind?” His voice was low, smooth, cutting through the hum of conversation like silk.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t subtle, not in the slightest. Every glance, every smirk, was a deliberate game — one you were dangerously close to losing.

“Just enjoying dinner,” you managed, though the slight curve of his lips told you he wasn’t convinced.

“Is that so?” He leaned in, his elbow resting on the table, the candlelight catching the silver at his temples. “Because it seems like you’re enjoying something else.”

Your pulse quickened. The words dripped with implication, but no one else seemed to notice. The laughter continued around you, blissfully unaware. Yet Michael’s gaze never wavered, his eyes promising something that made your skin flush.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Someone might notice how much you like being watched.”

And God, the way he said it — like he already knew you did.