DAPHNE
I don't miss the way the women in the shop keep sneaking glances at Ezekiel, some not even bothering to hide their stares. They whisper to each other behind paper cups and greasy napkins, eyes wide, smiles coy.
"He's so handsome." I hear one of them murmur. And well, they're not wrong. He draws attention without even trying.
But I can't focus on that. I can't even focus on my pizza. Every bite feels like a risk, like I'll choke or spiral into indigestion because Ezekiel won't stop looking at me. That intense, piercing stare. Like I'm something unfamiliar, something fascinating. Like I'm an unsolved riddle or a painting he's trying to understand.
I lower my face, pressing my lips to the straw of my Coke and sipping slowly, hoping the chilled drink will cool the flush creeping up
