Melissa.
Cyril stood by the door, one hand still resting against the wood as if he hadn’t fully decided whether to enter or leave.
But his eyes….His eyes had already entered.
They moved slowly over me, deliberate and unhurried, taking in every exposed inch of skin the towel failed to hide. From my damp hair clinging to my shoulders…down to the curve of my collarbone…lower, where the edge of white fabric was tucked tightly against my chest.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t look away.
And under that steady assessment, I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the towel.
Heat crept up my neck, not from embarrassment alone, but from the weight of his gaze. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t startled.
It was calculating.
I immediately clutched the towel tighter against myself, my fingers dig
