Layleen
My heart sinks somewhere deep in my chest as I stare into his eyes—sharp, piercing, and impossibly deep. They are the color of the whiskey I just spilled on his shoes, rich and golden, yet darkened by something unreadable.
I don't know how long I stand there, locked in his gaze, but the longer he looks at me, the more I feel myself being drawn in—pulled under, as if drowning in amber depths. Everything else fades away, the room, the people, even my own fear.
And then—it changes.
His face, lean with high cheekbones, grows impossibly tense. As if the bones beneath his skin have sharpened. His full lips press into a firm, unyielding line. The warmth in his honey-colored eyes vanishes, replaced by something chilling and hollow—as if a single drop of black ink has tainted their golden glow, marring their beauty.
The heartbreaking sadness I glimpsed just moments ago is gone.
In its place, something suffocating unfurls.
