You feel it long before he dares to admit it.

The weight of his eyes on you, studying every detail—the curve of your mouth when you smile, the small gestures you make when you’re lost in thought, the way your hands move when you’re telling a story.

At first, his gaze is quiet, almost scientific, like he’s cataloging you the way he does with books and music. But then something shifts. His eyes linger too long on your lips, follow the way you brush hair from your face. He swallows, as if the hunger blooming in him is a secret too heavy to keep inside.

Victor doesn’t move quickly—he never does. He’s deliberate, as though each motion costs him courage. But the moment he finally speaks, his voice is low, uneven: “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

His hand hovers close, not touching yet, waiting for the smallest sign. When you don’t pull away, he exhales shakily and lets his fingertips trace the back of your hand, reverent, like a man learning something sacred.

“Show me,” he whispers, his forehead leaning against yours. “Teach me how to… stay here, in this. How to hold you without breaking the spell.” There’s a rawness in his plea, an honesty that makes your pulse race. His touch grows bolder, mapping your skin like every inch of you is a revelation. His desire isn’t rushed—it’s discovery, a slow surrender.

And in the way he finally cups your face, drawing you into a kiss that’s trembling but hungry, you realize: he doesn’t just want to desire you. He wants to learn you.