Moon walks toward me.
Not fast. Not slow. Something in between—a predator's pace, unhurried because he knows there's nowhere for me to run.
His blue eyes never leave mine. Not once.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel it in my throat, my temples, the trembling tips of my fingers pressed flat against my desk.
Calm. Act calm.
Don't let him see. Don't let him know.
I slam my palms on the desk. The sound cracks through the enormous office like a gunshot, desperate and loud.
"Why did you lock the door?!"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. He just keeps walking.
He stops on the other side of my desk. His hands rest on the polished wood—fingers spread wide, claiming territory, marking space.
Then he leans forward. The desk is between us, inches of oak and history, but it feels like nothing. A suggestion of a barrier. A lie.
Our eyes lock.
A slow, deliberate smirk curves his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"Why... are you scared?"
