I exhale through my nose. “I am.”
“You’re not.”
I force myself to slump slightly, to look smaller, less aware. The act makes my knee twinge, sharp and sudden. I grit my teeth and keep my expression neutral.
Sting doesn’t break eye contact.
I try to catalog him the way I’ve learned to catalog threats. Height. Build. Distance. Possible weapons. It doesn’t work. The problem isn’t that he looks dangerous. The problem is that he looks interested.
Interested is dangerous. Scary. And I can’t stop staring back, that is, when Armen isn’t noticing.
A woman passes between us, pausing near me long enough to glance at my face. Her eyes flick to Sting, then back to me. She frowns slightly, like she’s confused by something, then keeps walking.
My pulse picks up. I’m not sure why.
Armen turns his head just enough to speak without moving his body. “Do you recognize him?”
“That guy?” I say. “The one looking at me?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
I hesitate. “Yeah. It’s Sting. You pointed him out earlier.”
He grunts.
Across the corridor, Sting lifts one hand and adjusts the edge of his mask. The movement is slow, almost lazy, but it draws my attention instantly. For a fraction of a second, I wonder if he’s about to take it off. He doesn’t. Instead, he lowers his hand and folds his arms loosely across his chest. Like he’s settling in.
I feel suddenly, acutely exposed. Not because I’m bound or injured, I’ve felt all of that already. This is different. This is the sense that someone has decided I’m worth their time.
“Why is he staring at me?” I ask.
Armen doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is even. “Because you’re here.”
I glance sideways at him. “Should I be worried?”
“You should be aware.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I’m not trying to comfort you.”
Sting shifts again, taking one step to the side. The angle changes. He can see more of me now, my profile, the line of my jaw, the way my hair falls forward over my shoulder.
He raises his chin slightly, like he’s testing whether I’ll look at him again.
I don’t. At least, not right away. And when I do, it’s accidental. Someone bumps my chair as they pass, jostling me just enough that my gaze lifts.
Sting is already watching.
Our eyes lock again.
This time, he doesn’t just hold the look. He smiles.
I can’t see his mouth, but I can tell by the way his cheeks lift, by the subtle change in his posture. The smileis slow. Deliberate. Like he knows exactly what effect it’s having.
How strange, to know someone’s smiling when you can’t actually see it.
I look away sharply, heat crawling up my neck. Anger follows close behind it. At him. At myself.
