EZRA
The sun hits hard the second I step past the gate.
It's late morning, but the brightness feels heavier than that — almost sharp. Light reflects off van mirrors, metal cages, the crates lined up in crooked rows. Voices echo across the yard. Someone's shouting names. A van door slams shut behind me.
I walk straight, keeping to the left. Not in a rush, but not slow either. It's too loud to think, too busy to stare. At least, that's what I assume.
Until I see her.
She's off to the side, half-turned, crouching by a crate. I wouldn't notice her at first if it weren't for the way the light shifts just then — and lands right on her. Like the world pauses for a second to spotlight her. No reason. Just… fate, maybe.
My eyes catch her before I even know I'm looking.
Long hair — down, falling over her shoulders like it's meant to frame her. She isn't trying. Not showing off. She's just… existing. Doing her own thing. Looking down at something in the crate. Her posture is relaxed but focused, like she knows exactly what she's doing and doesn't care if anyone notices.
But I notice.
God, I notice.
Her figure's curved in all the ways that make your breath catch before you can stop it. It's subtle — not exaggerated — but enough to make your eyes pause. Her clothes hug just enough of her to leave the rest to imagination. She stands up confidently, a little to the side, one hip slightly out, like she's balanced there naturally. Not posed. Not careful. Just effortless.
There's a softness to the way she moves — a kind of quiet grace. Every small gesture draws your eyes without asking. The bend of her elbow. The way her fingers adjust the crate lid. Even the slight arch of her back when she leans in.
She doesn't even glance around to see if anyone's watching.
And maybe that's what makes it worse.
She doesn't need the attention. She doesn't try for it.
She just has it.
And then — she moves.
Just a shift of the head. A flicker of awareness.
She senses me.
And she looks up.
The moment slows. Like I've hit some invisible wall in the air.
Her eyes lock with mine.
Big. Dark. Unreadable.
They don't blink. They don't soften. They just look — deep and clear, like they see straight through the noise of everything else happening in this place.
It hits me harder than I expect.
She doesn't smile.
She doesn't look surprised.
It's like she knew I'd be looking.
Like she's used to it.
But still — there's something in the way her head tilts ever so slightly. Like she's testing me. Measuring me without saying a word. No expression, no twitch of the lip. Nothing obvious. Just eyes. Still and watching.
And somehow… I can't look away.
She's the prettiest girl I've ever seen.
It's not even close.
And it's not just her face — it's the way her whole presence holds the space around her. Feminine without trying. Strong without a sound. She's standing there like she belongs here more than anyone else — and suddenly, I feel like I'm the one out of place.
I walk past her.
Slowly now.
Still watching her from the corner of my eye as I pass, like my body is moving forward but my mind hasn't quite caught up.
She turns back to her work eventually. No glance over her shoulder. No second look.
And I—
I keep walking.
But everything else I pass is a blur.
There's no sound anymore. No heat. No crates. Just the picture of her burned somewhere behind my eyes — the hair, the eyes, the curve of her form, the stillness of her face.
I find a spot near the far corner and pretend to take in my surroundings. My hands feel awkward, like I'm not sure what to do with them anymore. Someone's calling names again. I don't hear mine.
I'm still thinking about her.
Wondering if she noticed how long I looked. Wondering if she cared. Wondering why I care if she did.
She didn't smile. Didn't flirt. Didn't even nod.
But something about the way she looked at me — it stays.
Like I've been marked. Briefly. Quietly.
I'm not the kind of guy who gets distracted easily. But now, even while someone tries to explain where things go, or what van is what, I keep seeing her.
That stare.
That curve of her back when she bent toward the crate.
That casual confidence like she's not new here — like she owns her space.
There's something about a girl who doesn't need to speak to be noticed. Who doesn't soften her edges just because a guy's watching. She just is, and that's more than enough.
I don't know her name.
I don't know what she does here.
But I know one thing:
That face —Those eyes —That presence —
I won't be forgetting it.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not for a while.