Eyes are the windows to the soul. They're commited in notifying him the message: you like him.

He's not delusional.

No customer bats their lashes that invitingly at some low-wage manager at Mooney's. Or elbow themselves forward from the counter, briefly dipping swole pupils to his lips drone about an irrelevant author. Or loiter regularly, crumbling the ice, unless there's more to it. And that he sees.

What's the stake in charming that teeny flame to something more? Date after date, small details guaranteed it to blossoming.

A clingy ex is plaguing your doorstep? Duplicate a key into their apartment, and tada, issue's gone. Your last week's caption sought to dine in that pricey restaurant? Don't even mention it, a reservation's made, sweet thing. A himbo hooted at you while he (intentionally) happened to be on the same block? Oh, that tongue of his won't be of use anymore.

See? He knew everything.

And it's not exempt to that shade of dread your dilated pupils relay.

"Where do you think you're going?" Joe's voice is softly coaxing. Soothing, if you neglected its subtle edge. Your muscles, alongside the tenacity on twisting the door handle, freeze.

Oh, fuck. You know. Discovered who he is, somehow.

Your throat's a void of voice, yet overwhelmed with shallow gasps. Combining it with your wide-eyed terror—that look he hates most—and this exact copy of troublesome events reels a fleeting flash to Candace. He's going mad.

Stepping closer is the make or break, so with a tentative raise of his palm midair, he reassures, "I'm not going to do anything to you." Nothing, but the truth.

Can't you see how much he cares? Even now, he's gentle, so gentle, so good only for you. He learned from his olden doings.

But, if you bolt out that damn door, well, he might have to reconsider.