*Aryanna
I couldn’t quite decipher Darren’s motive for insisting on escorting me. Whether it was a silent declaration or a quiet claim staked in public—perhaps both—I chose not to protest. His presence brought no threat, and I found myself curious enough to permit his company. His hand rested on the small of my back, a gesture that felt more declarative than protective. Then, in one smooth motion, his touch slipped down, his fingers weaving between mine, binding us for any curious onlooker who glanced our way. With that small entanglement, our entry together felt both undeniably deliberate and oddly intimate.
I glanced at his sculpted side profile as he led the way.
“People are staring,” I murmured, feeling the weight of the glances like static in the air.
“Let them.” Darren's response held an unspoken triumph as if each lingering look was part of his design.