The fabric falls away, revealing the pale stretch of skin beneath. He drapes it over the arm of the couch with careful movements, lingering just a little too long as his fingers smooth the wrinkles away.
Buying himself time.
His back is bare now.
Exposed to the warm golden light.
Exposed to my eyes.
I stand.
He watches me come closer. His fists clench around his notebook and pencil—knuckles pale, chest rising and falling beneath that silk shirt.
He looks at me. Then down. Then at me again. Confused. Uncertain.
I don't stop walking.
He steps back.
I step closer.
He steps back again.
I step closer again.
His back meets the wall. Soft. Final.
The sound of his shoulder blades pressing against the painted surface—a small, quiet surrender.
I raise my hand. Press it against the wall beside his head. Caging him.
Not touching him. Just... there.
"Turn around."
