Zara
I don’t mean to keep looking at him. That would imply a decision, a moment where I can choose to turn away, to let the room swallow him back into its usual rhythm. To pretend that whatever tilted when he walked through that door hasn’t settled somewhere under my skin.
But I don’t choose anything. Not really.
Because the second I see him – before I even know what I’m looking at, – something in me has already leaned in, already locked on. Already recognized him in that dangerous, instinctive way the body knows certain things before the brain has language for them.
Like hunger. Like gravity. Like trouble.
And dear sweet God, he looks like all kinds of trouble.
Tall enough to command attention without demanding it, broad shoulders cutting through the dim clubhouse like something car
