Hannah did not look at him for a second. Not directly.
She turned another page—firmly, precisely—and let her legs splay the full width of the couch, feet now pointed toward the armrest instead of the gap. The silence was deliberate, sculpted, as if she'd reimagined the furniture of her own body for a reason. Not relaxation. Something else.
Sam did not move. He hadn't even turned a page.
She noticed.
"Been sitting there for near on twenty minutes," she said to him, her head still bent. "Must be fabulous reading."
His throat closed. "It's. sort of heavy."
"Mmm." She didn't sound anything. She traced her thumbnail down the edge of the paper and turned another page.
Sam shifted in his chair. The soft rustle of his trousers and the creak of the cushion sounded cavernous in the quiet.
She adjusted her position again—subtle—pulling one foot beneath her, leaving the other stretched toward him. The arch was exposed now, the foot resting lightly on its side, thick black fabric wrapping every curve in shadow. There was nothing suggestive in the movement. That was what made it worse.
"You've been watching me," she said quietly, finally turning her gaze toward him.
His stomach sank.
"No," he said. "I haven't."
Her lips folded into a soft line. "Sam."
He looked down. "I'm not."
Her voice didn't rise. "You were. I can tell."
He hated the way she just stayed so calm. So unflappable. He was the one sweating. She was the one being watched—and yet she was in control.
"I just caught myself you were totally engrossed in your book," he grumbled.
She watched him.
He went on, stumbling. "It's not like—I mean, I didn't do it on purpose. I just looked over a couple of times."
She pushed forward, her head cocked at a slant. "Was it the story that you were looking at? Or maybe something else?"
His ears grew hot.
"What do you mean?"
Now she smiled—almost, like something she allowed herself only for the sake of drama. "Your eyes were not on the book in my hands, Sam."
He glared at the floor. His breathing was shallow. "I wasn't—"
"I know what I felt," she said. She spoke in a soft voice. "You touched my leg."
He stopped.
"I thought maybe it was an accident. The first time. But the second? The third?"
"I didn't—" he whispered. "I just."
"What is it?" she asked. "The tights?"
He gazed at her, surprised. Her look was unflinching.
"I've noticed the way you're looking at them," she told him, in a calm voice. "You stare when you think I'm not watching. But I'm always watching, Sam."
He jerked his head up too quickly. "No. No, I swear. That's not—"
"I don't want to know if it is," she told him. "Just don't lie to me about it."
She leaned forward now, her book folded up in her lap. The full weight of her focus hung on him like a rock.
"Are you obsessed with them?"
He couldn't answer.
"Do you even know why?"
Silence.
And then she did something small—something so small it felt huge.
She inched her leg again, stretching it slowly, the heel of her foot scraping along the cushion towards him. Her toes wringed inside the heavy black fabric, curling once and then dropping back again.
His gasp stuck in his throat.
She looked at him. Sized him up. Waited.
And settled back to her book once more.
"That's enough for now," she said softly, eyes back on the page.
Sam could not tell what scared him more—the knowledge that she had caught sight of him, or that she had let him.