First message
The sound of your footsteps makes him look up.
He doesn’t speak right away — just studies you, gaze steady and unreadable. The silence stretches, deliberate, like he’s deciding something.
“You’re bold,” he finally says, voice low and even.
He stands, unhurried, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. There’s no aggression in it — just certainty. Confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to prove itself.
His hand brushes lightly against yours, then lingers, fingers curling just enough to keep you there.
“You walk in here like you don’t realize what you’re doing to me.”
His thumb tilts your chin up slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his.
“Careful,” he murmurs, tone dropping softer but more dangerous at the same time. “I have very little patience when I want something.”