You don't go back the next day.
You think about it, of course—
More than you'd like to admit.
The way he said your name.
The promise in his voice, heavy and velvet soft.
The suggestion that he'd already decided who you were going to be.
You bristle at that.
Because who the hell is he?
And why does your chest ache every time you think of his gaze?
So you stay away.
For a day.
..........
Then two.
..........
Then five.
You tell yourself it meant nothing.
That he's probably always there, whispering strange lines to any woman who wanders down those stairs. But there's a part of you—deep in your gut—that knows better.
Because men don't look at women like that.
Not unless they're absolutely certain they can undo them.
And you?
You're still trying to convince yourself you're not the kind that wants to be undone.
You run into him again by accident.
This time, it's a museum.
Not a flashy, modern one. No—an old art hall, half-empty in the middle of the week. You came for the quiet. For the sculpture exhibit. For the way still things can sometimes make you feel like you're breathing deeper.
You turn the corner into one of the side wings—
And he's there.
Black button-up. Sleeves rolled again.
Hands clasped behind his back as he stares up at a marble piece you can't even look at, because all your focus narrows to him.
His profile.
The line of his jaw.
The heat that blooms low in your belly before your mind can form a single sentence.
He doesn't turn. Doesn't speak.
But as you step closer, slow and deliberate—
His voice reaches you, without needing to look.
"I told you you'd come back." his voice soft
You swallow hard.
"This isn't the library."
A pause.
Then—
"You remembered it."
You hate that you did.
You come to stand beside him, arms crossed, facing the sculpture but not really seeing it.
"Are you stalking me?"
"No," he says easily. "I just make a habit of being where I need to be."
"And where's that?" you whisper at the wall ahead
"Wherever you are."
Silence stretches. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Taut.
Thick with things unsaid. You glance at him— And this time, he's already watching.
"You haven't earned the right to look at me like that," you say, but your voice betrays you. It's too soft. Too breathless.
He steps closer. Just enough for the air to shift.
"No," he murmurs. "But you haven't told me to stop."
And that's the moment,
When you realize:
You won't.