It wasn’t physical.
She didn’t touch you. She didn’t move closer. She didn’t say anything bold or inappropriate.
She simply looked at you.
And somehow, that was enough.
There’s a certain kind of gaze that doesn’t skim the surface. It doesn’t just register appearance—it evaluates posture, confidence, hesitation, curiosity. When her eyes settled on you, it felt deliberate. Slow. Assessing.
Not invasive. Not aggressive.
Just aware.
You felt it immediately—the shift in your breathing, the tightening in your shoulders. You became conscious of where your hands were, how you were sitting, whether your expression gave anything away.
Because her eyes weren’t casual. They were patient.
She didn’t rush the moment. She let her gaze travel naturally, calmly, taking in details as if she had all the time in the world. And in that slowness, something inside you unraveled.
You suddenly felt transparent.
As if the composure you carefully constructed—the steady tone, the measured gestures, the controlled confidence—had become thin glass. And she could see right through it.
There was no smirk. No raised eyebrow. No obvious signal that she had noticed your reaction.
That made it worse.
Because it meant she didn’t need to show power. She already had it.
You tried to maintain eye contact, but holding it felt like standing still under a spotlight. Her gaze didn’t challenge you—it studied you. As if she already understood the parts of you you rarely reveal.
The curiosity.
The tension.
The quiet desire to be noticed.
And instead of turning away, she held it just long enough to make sure you felt seen.
That’s what unsettled you.
Not exposure in a physical sense—but psychological exposure.
You weren’t prepared for how intimate simple eye contact could feel when it was controlled with precision.
Her eyes already undressed you—not by removing anything external, but by peeling back the layers of performance.
And once that layer is gone…
You don’t quite know how to put it back on.
