Page 33 of His To Unravel
The professor starts the lecture, but the subject fades into the background. My attention is elsewhere.
Instead, I watch Olivia.
The shifts in her expression, the way thoughts flicker across her face. When she disagrees with a point, a small furrow forms between her brows. When something intrigues her, her eyes narrow, a quiet intensity sharpening her focus.
And then there are those fleeting glances she casts in my direction.
She looks—just for a second—then quickly glances away, like she’s been caught. Like a startled rabbit sensing the hunter.
I don’t pretend not to notice. I keep my gaze on her, steady and unyielding. Watching her squirm is its own reward.
She’s drawn to me, whether she admits it or not. And I intend to make sure she feels it. Every time.
There are other tells, too.
The soft, rapid tap of her fingers against her notebook when frustration sets in, a habit she probably doesn’t even realize she has. Or the way her hand lifts to her necklace, her fingertips tracing the pendant absently. Small gestures, but they give her away. Moments of vulnerability, glimpses of the emotions she keeps carefully concealed beneath her composed facade.
And with each one, something instinctive stirs inside me.
An unexpected, but undeniable protectiveness.
A need to be the only one who sees these pieces of her. The only one who knows what they mean.
This may have begun as a mere fascination, an intrigue sparked by her independence and unassuming beauty. But it’s evolved.
The lecture drones on, but I’m miles from it, already envisioning what needs to happen next. I’ll plan something…memorable.
This connection between us needs to become undeniable, something she can’t ignore.
It will be an experience she won’t forget. One that will linger in her mind, filling her thoughts until there’s no space left for anyone else.
By the time the professor dismisses us, my mind is alight with possibilities, each detail lining up to create the perfect evening. One designed not just to sweep her off her feet, but to ensure she remained firmly in my orbit.
Le Baroque restson a quieter side of Beacon Hill, nestled between antique bookstores and dimly lit galleries.
It’s a restaurant many overlook—a small, intimate space draped in dark woods, the scent of cedar permeating faintly in the air.
I chose it deliberately. Not for convenience, but because Iwanted her here. Away from the crowds. Somewhere private, secluded. A space that would feel like a secret, something tucked just out of sight, meant only for us.
The lighting is subdued, casting golden halos across tables set apart for privacy, each tucked within alcoves lining the walls. The place is layered with old-world charm and subtle sophistication—it’s warm and inviting yet steeped in shadows. The kind of setting where conversations unfold slowly, intimately, like confessions coaxed out by candlelight.
I guide Olivia inside with a hand at the small of her back. She moves closer, her posture tentative but comfortable. She takes in the surroundings—the deep burgundy leather chairs, the flickering candles, the vintage jazz playing low in the background.
I chose this place based on things I’ve observed—her style, her demeanor, the way her eyes linger on old books, and her preference for quiet corners.
As we settle into a corner booth, her features are softened by the glow of the flickering candles—green eyes bright against the low light, auburn hair falling around her shoulders with a casual elegance that makes my pulse quicken.
She’s wearing a black slip dress that clings in all the right places. Modest from afar, but up close, it’s lethal. The way it hugs her waist, the line of her bare shoulders, the flash of skin when she moves… I don’t think she realizes what she’s doing to me.
Or maybe she does.
The waiter arrives, and I order for us both, slipping in dishes I know she favors, recalling the way her face lights up at the first taste of something she truly enjoys.
My gaze doesn’t waver as she speaks, her voice soft, slightly self-conscious. She has no idea how captivating she is when she has her guard down like this.
I reach across the table, refilling her glass before our drinks are even halfway empty, letting my fingers brush hers withjust enough intention to keep the atmosphere charged, a steady current building between us with each passing glance.
As the meal winds down, I reach into my jacket, pulling out a small velvet box. I set it on the table, watching her gaze drift to it, curiosity stirring in her expression.
