Anya’s POV
He was sitting on one of the chairs, relaxed, one arm resting on the armrest, his phone in his hand. He looked comfortable, like he belonged in every room he walked into. When he heard me enter, he looked up. His eyes didn’t rush. They traveled slowly—from my hair, down my dress, to my heels—and then back up to my face.
The look made my stomach twist.
It wasn’t obvious or crude. It was focused. Sharp. Like he was taking in every detail without saying a word. I felt exposed, like he could see straight through the careful choices I had made. My face warmed, and I broke eye contact first, staring at the wall beside him as if something there suddenly mattered.
He looked handsome, as usual. That was a thought I noticed and immediately pushed away. I didn’t allow it space to grow.
