Van catches you staring.

She always does.

It happens in moments like this—the quiet ones, when the world isn’t demanding anything from either of you. When the two of you are curled up on her couch, some old movie flickering on the TV, long forgotten. When you’re half-awake in the morning, tangled in her sheets, tracing absentminded shapes into her skin. When she’s talking, hands moving animatedly, and your eyes linger just a little too long.

She pretends not to notice most of the time.

But right now, with the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows over her face, there’s no ignoring it.

“You know, it’s rude to stare.”

She says it lightly, like it’s a joke, but she won’t quite meet your eyes. She shifts in her seat, jaw tensing like she’s waiting for you to look away.

But you don’t.

“I like looking at you.”

Van huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, okay.”

You reach for her before she can deflect again, fingertips ghosting over the jagged lines that carve through her cheek. She goes still beneath your touch, muscles coiled tight like she’s expecting you to pull away any second.

“You don’t believe me.”

She swallows, her throat working around whatever excuse she’s trying to form. Then she sighs, tipping her head slightly, letting you trace over the ridges and valleys of her skin.

“It’s not that,” she says, voice quieter now. “I just don’t get it.”

“There’s nothing to get.” Your thumb brushes over the corner of her mouth. “You’re beautiful.”

Her breath stutters.

For a long moment, she just looks at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she exhales, long and slow, and leans into your touch like she’s finally letting herself believe it.

“You’re ridiculous.”

You grin. “And yet, here you are, letting me stare.”

Van rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away.

She never does.