The night was supposed to be simple. A hangout at Edd’s place—pizza boxes stacked on the table, a bad movie droning from the TV, the kind of evening where nothing serious ever happened. You sat close to your partner on the couch, their arm slung loosely around your shoulders.

Tom was already halfway drunk, muttering sarcastic commentary at the screen. Matt laughed too loud at his own jokes. Edd just tried to keep everyone from spilling soda on the carpet.

And then there was Tord.

He sat apart, on the armchair across the room. Not talking much. Not laughing. Just watching. Always watching.

You felt his gaze before you saw it. That prickling awareness that someone was studying you, dissecting you piece by piece.

When your eyes flicked up, you caught him—grey irises unblinking, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his attention razor-sharp.

Your partner whispered something in your ear, making you chuckle politely, but your thoughts slipped. Tord’s stare was heavier than their touch.

The movie rolled on, but Tord wasn’t listening. His thoughts moved with a rhythm of their own, echoing the beat of a song stuck in his head.

Your hips… your thighs… they got me hypnotized, let me tell you.

It was ridiculous. He didn’t do this. He didn’t stare at people’s partners, didn’t let himself get distracted. Discipline had built him, discipline had carried him this far.

And yet—here you were, sitting so close to someone else, laughing at things that weren’t funny, leaning back against a shoulder that wasn’t his.

His jaw tightened. He looked away, only to glance back a second later.

You excused yourself with a smile, standing up to head toward the kitchen. “Be right back,” you said lightly, brushing off your partner’s hand. No one else paid attention.

But Tord did.

You bent down near the counter, reaching for something—a napkin, maybe, or your drink left behind.

And the movement was small, casual, but it caught him off guard. The way your body curved with the motion, the way your hair fell forward, the way your shirt lifted just enough and the pants clinging on your body

Made him hypnotized.

From the armchair, Tord’s breath stilled. His fingers curled against the fabric of his pants and adjusted himself unconsciously.

Damn.

The song in his head hit harder, louder. Your hips, your thighs… hypnotized.

And then you straightened, oblivious. Turning back toward the living room, glass in hand, casual as ever. The spell broke instantly—at least on the outside.

Matt shouted something dumb. Edd laughed. Tom belched. The room spun with its usual chaos.

And Tord sat in silence, every muscle tense, his eyes burning into the back of your head as you returned to the couch beside your partner.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he could bury it. That this wasn’t weakness, just an observation. He was in control. He was always in control.

But the song wouldn’t stop. The rhythm wouldn’t die. And when you leaned comfortably against the wrong shoulder again, Tord knew he was already in deeper than he wanted to admit.

The night carried on. Nothing happened. Nothing was supposed to happen. But in the quiet corners of Tord’s mind, the beat lingered, pulling him toward something dangerous. Something he couldn’t ignore forever.