The first time I saw him, I mistook him for silence.
A man so still he barely seemed real, his presence like the eye of a storm—calm, calculated, dangerous. And I, with my red lips and fractured smile, walked straight into it.
It wasn't supposed to matter.
It was just another night.
Just another ballroom with too many ghosts and too much perfume. I didn't even want to be there. But fate has a funny way of dragging you exactly where you swore you wouldn't go.
My heels clicked against marble. A rhythm I wore like armor. I told myself I was in control. That I came here out of boredom, not hope. Not hunger.
But then I looked up. And there he was.
He wasn't looking at me at first. That would've been too easy. No, he was talking to someone, a woman in a tight silver dress, but he wasn't with her. His body was present. His mind was somewhere else. Everywhere else.
And then our eyes met.
Just for a second too long.
That's how it begins, doesn't it? Not with lightning. Not with fate. But with a glance that stretches just a heartbeat past acceptable. A look that lingers. A look that knows.
I should've looked away.
I didn't.
Because there was something in his gaze that felt like unraveling.
And I wanted to be unraveled.
He turned his head slightly, as if considering whether I was worth it. Then he smiled.
It wasn't kind.
It was a smile that stripped me bare and knew exactly where I would break.
My drink burned down my throat. I needed air, or distance, or time. I got none of it.
I moved, slowly, toward the balcony. I didn't expect him to follow.
But when I reached the cold air, he was already there.
He had been waiting.
"You don't look like you belong here," he said, voice quiet but slicing through the noise behind us.
"And you do?"
He turned to face me. His eyes were darker than they should've been. Deeper. Like secrets drowning in ink.
"I never said I belonged," he said. "Only that I came to collect."
I laughed, dry. "Collect what?"
His gaze dropped to my lips. "Whatever stares back too long."
I hated how my heart jumped.
"Is that your strategy? Wait for a girl to glance your way and then haunt her?"
"No," he said simply. "Only the ones who stare like they've already seen too much."
My breath hitched.
He stepped closer, and I should've stepped back—but I was too curious, too wired, too dizzy from the sound of his voice.
"You stared first," I whispered.
"I always do."
His fingers brushed my wrist. Barely a touch. Just enough to make me feel the burn long after.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He smiled again. "Does it matter?"
Yes, it did. But I couldn't say that. Not to him. Not with my pulse screaming through my skin.
"Some glances," he murmured, "are a promise. Some are a trap. Yours was both."
"I didn't mean to."
"That's the beauty of it."
He leaned in, lips inches from mine—but didn't kiss me. He didn't need to. His breath against my skin was enough to leave a scar.
Then he whispered, "Run now, if you want to keep your soul."
I should have. God, I should have.
But I didn't move.
And he vanished into the shadows, like he was made of them.
---
Back to the Present
Location: My Apartment
The next morning, I woke up with his voice echoing behind my eyes.
Still no name. No trace. But the damage had been done.
I poured coffee with trembling hands. My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
> "Still staring?"
My fingers curled around the cup so tightly it almost shattered.
Unknown Number:
> "I never left the ballroom. You did."
I swallowed the panic, forced control back into my breath. I opened my laptop, pulled up the surveillance photos I'd stolen from the ballroom's security. I scanned every frame.
And there he was.
Not looking at the camera. But looking at me.
In every shot.
I leaned closer.
And then I saw it—barely visible. Written in red on the edge of my shoulder. Blurred, faint.
A name.
Elijah.
I hadn't worn anything with writing that night. I know that dress. It was bare.
But the name was there. His name. On my skin.
No one else saw it.
Only me.
Or maybe he put it there. Somehow. Some trick.
A signature. A claim.
My hand brushed the spot, but there was nothing.
Still, I knew.
The glance had marked me. And now, I was spiraling into something dark and infinite.
I sat back.
He hadn't kissed me. Hadn't touched me, really. But I could still feel him—in me.
Elijah Darko.
Even his name tasted like obsession.
And now, I needed to know who he was. Why he'd chosen me. Why he wouldn't leave.
I pulled up old security footage from events. Names of donors. Guests. Hidden files. Men with pasts erased.
There were fragments. Shadows.
But never him.
Like he never existed.
Or like he only existed for me.
Another message came in.
Unknown Number:
> "You looked too long. Now I'll never look away."
I dropped the phone.
But deep down, part of me didn't want him to stop.
Because something inside me had already given in.
Because one glance too long… was already too late.