When I return with his dinner, he’s perched at his desk, a pen twirling lazily between his fingers.
His head is slightly bowed as he reads through a stack of documents, the dim light from the desk lamp casting sharp shadows on his chiseled features.
There’s a dark elegance to him, a commanding presence that makes the air in the room feel heavier.
It’s unsettling how effortlessly intimidating he is, even when he’s doing something as mundane as reading.
I clear my throat softly as I set the tray on the table in the corner. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge me, as if I’m invisible.
That’s fine by me. The less interaction I have with him, the better.
With the tray set, I straighten up and move toward the door.
“Wait,” he says abruptly, his voice slicing through the silence.
I
