I drag my gaze—reluctantly—back up to his face. “You’re aware that you look… extremely… like that, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
I wave a hand helplessly. “Like a very intimidating, extremely attractive warlord who could probably conquer small nations but chooses not to because he’s busy writing code.”
He huffs a laugh.
A real one.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is absolutely a compliment.”
There’s a beat.
And then his gaze shifts—slowly—over me.
From my hair.
To the dragon clips.
To the dress.
To the trailing scarves that almost killed me.
And for a split second, I brace.
This is it.
This is the moment.
He’s going to make a joke.
He’s going to say something dry and devastatinglike‘that’s… a lot’and I will simply evaporate into a fine mist and drift away into the Texas Hill Country.
But he doesn’t.
His expression… changes. Softens. His eyes darken slightly.
“You look…” He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. Then, quieter, “You look incredible.”
Oh.
Oh no.
This is worse.
This is so much worse.
Because now my crush is not only alive—it is thriving. It is doing jumping jacks. It is applying for a mortgage.
“Thank you,” I say, and I amso proudof myself for not immediately following that with twelve additional sentences.
I last approximately two seconds.
“I was a little worried it might be too much,” I add quickly. “I mean, itisa lot. Objectively. There are scarves. Multiple scarves. That’s never a subtle choice.”
His gaze flicks to the trailing fabric, then back to me. “I like it.”
