When A Guy Watches Your Every Move Mga Nobela at Kwento

What is wrong with me? I should be focusing on my coffee or the door. Or literally anything that doesn’t involve tracking the bead of sweat sliding down his throat. But my gaze keeps dragging back, like I’m hooked, like he’s reeling me in without even trying. It’s not in admiration. Not exactly. It’s… assessment. Predator clocking another predator. Because there’s a way he moves, controlled, that says he doesn’t just train to look good. He trains for the kill.

He held himself the way he always held himself — upright, composed, the posture of someone who has made a habit of taking up space with intention. And then I was close enough to see his face. He was watching me walk toward him. He watched me the way he always watched me — with that full, completely focused, slightly unnerving quality of attention that had, the first time I encountered it, felt like being assessed. Like being looked at by someone working out my value, my usefulness, my place in a calculation I hadn't been shown. It had made me want to look away. It had also made me want to hold it, which was the stronger impulse, and so I had held it.

I replied, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I can see you watching me, Angela,” he teased, that smirk never leaving his face. “You are making sure I do not move too close.” How does he notice everything? Am I really that easy to read? “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I muttered, shrugging it off. “So you would not care if I did this?” he asked, shifting even closer. “Nope,” I answered quickly, keeping my gaze on the screen because I knew my face would give me away.

“It's how you're trying to act calm, when you're not” I took another gulp “Something has been happening” I walked towards him and shoved my phone on his face He saw the text His eyes widened “Is this us?!” “No, it's ai, of course it's us” “And?” “What do you mean and?, I don't know who it is” “Who knew about your whereabouts” “I don't know, I can't tell, everyone watches me” He sighed “This person is someone watching closely, someone that knows who you are and a lot about you and the person has access to your personal space and they're choosing when to act”

I hear a masculine voice yell, I turn to see a tall muscular man with facial tattoos I scoff "Isn't this a bit Cliché?". He walks towards me with 10 other guys "Are you harassing that woman?". He asked with his broad chest on my face I look up at his face "No, we are just having a friendly conversation". She starts making noises shaking her head "Just a game we like to play" "Do I look like an idiot?". He asked with a threatening tone "Of course not, just a big baffoo who doesn't know how to mind his fucking business". He pushes me to the ground

Does he mean it, that I can truly go? He won't change his mind? " Want me to change my mind?" Those words snap me back to reality and my body responds. I dare not look elsewhere the whole time I push against the wall, so I can stand up straight. I don't want him to jump me when I'm not watching. It's a little unnerving that he doesn't take his eyes off me, keeping them locked on my movements as if I'm some kind of prey. Well, maybe I am. The steadiness in my stance confirms for me that I can move.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I look fine while working.” “That’s now what I meant. I meant if your eyebrows narrow while you concentrate, if you press your lips together while you think, if you rub your fingers when you can’t find a solution, if your smile widens when you have finally found something important, if you scream when frustrated.” I kept quiet, not knowing what to answer to that. Quite frankly I didn’t even think if any guy noticed these little things, I knew I didn’t know these things about myself. Now I would feel self-conscious about everything I did, knowing that he was watching me, scrutinizing me.

I know it may sound paranoid as a statement, but ever since I moved to this small neighbourhood where everyone looks the same and people are replaced by robots or actors like in 'The Truman Show', I am quite convinced that someone is watching me at night when I undress. I moved for work and honestly that's all I care about. I don't have much time to waste with a weak little man who doesn’t have the confidence to face me. Besides, virile men, I don’t like them as well, they are overconfident, insecure and patriarchal. I like men who are tender, who rely on you, whom you can dominate, whom you trust to be faithful or else they will be punished. That sort of thing.

Every movement he made seemed deliberate and controlled, adding to his allure. She continued to steal glances at him, and she couldn't help but feel self-conscious. In comparison to his confident demeanor, she felt shy and awkward being in an enclosed space like this with him. She wondered if he noticed her fidgeting, her nervous movements betraying her inner turmoil. She wanted to appear strong and composed, just like him, but the intensity of his attraction made it difficult to hide her vulnerability.

I could tell him. I didn’t. “Just careful,” I said. “The usual kind.” He kept watching me with that piercing attention that always saw too much. I turned my gaze toward the room and felt his hand settle at the small of my back—the classic gala gesture, the one that said we’re being observed. Except I’d been looking away from the crowd, not toward it. He hadn’t done it for them. I turned my head slightly. He was staring out at the room with a perfectly composed expression, every inch the man comfortable at his wife’s side.