Staring into his eyes feels almost like looking into a mirror.
Not only because his blank expression matches mine, but because it’s so silent. I feel like I’m alone, almost, and for some reason that makes me feel naked under his scrutiny. But this silence is not your usual peaceful, empty silence–it’s driven. It’s meaningful and pregnant. As if on cue, my stomach gurgles and my first reaction of embarrassment is washed away by our good natured laughs.
“Julian,” he says suddenly, a lopsided smirk drawing my eyes to his lips.
He looks at me once more, and I feel like a canvas being stroked by a brush. Disquieting quiet once more covers us like a heavy duvet as he takes my hand in his, and this time I almost feel like even silence is too much sound. His fingers, rough as may be, trace my hand as if I were some sort of treasure. His touch feeds me as much as it fuels my hunger, and I can feel desire wrapping around me like vines.
I seem to snap awake when I feel my body responding to him and stand up hurriedly, snatching my hand away from his. He says nothing, just looks at me as if he knows what I am thinking. Then again, he probably does. I feel a powerful need of escape overcoming me, and instead of running to the door, sit myself back down. What exactly is escape?
“Jules…” He whispers.
For a moment I can’t even believe that’s the same name I’ve been called all my life. It is the only thing that truly belongs to me, and somehow it sounds different on his tongue.
I’m about to ask why he called my name and said nothing, when I realize he has been saying a lot. It’s me who hasn’t been listening.