Lyra gulped under the weight of Rowan's gaze.
There was something magnetic about the way he looked at her—intense and searching, as if trying to see past her words, past the smile she wore like armor. It pulled at her, drawing her into the depth of his unspoken thoughts, and for a moment, she found herself unable to look away.
But then, as if his stare was beginning to scorch her—unraveling the careful composure she held—she quickly averted her eyes.
A small, dry chuckle escaped her lips. "Well, I must be doing something right if everyone hates me."
Her tone was light, deliberately careless, but the tremor just beneath betrayed the truth. It wasn't humor. It was deflection.
Rowan didn't reply right away, and Lyra felt the silence stretch between them like a taut string. Uncomfortable. Weighted.
