<
I didn't say anything more that night.
Asher finished eating quietly, slower than usual, like he was still carrying the weight of the day in his shoulders. I watched him without making it obvious, noting the way his posture gradually softened, how his breathing evened out once he stopped thinking about the interview.
Normal, I reminded myself.
This was normal.
When he set the plate aside, he thanked me. Simple. Earnest. I nodded in response, careful not to make more of it than it was.
Later, when he went to his room, I stayed behind in the kitchen longer than necessary. I rinsed dishes that didn't need rinsing, wiped a counter that was already clean. The repetitive motions helped anchor me, gave my hands something to do while my thoughts refused to settle.
Another man's gaze.
The image returned uninvited, vivid in a way I didn't appreciate. I hadn't seen it myself, but Asher's description had been enough sharp, measuring, lingering longer than professional courtesy required.
I didn't like that.
Not because it threatened me.
Because it didn't have to.
I turned the tap off and stood there for a moment, palms braced against the counter, breathing steadily. Acting now would be premature. Reaction without confirmation was sloppy, and I wasn't sloppy.
Still, I made a mental note.
If the man became relevant, I would notice.
That was all. For now.
The next morning unfolded quietly.
Asher was already awake when I stepped into the kitchen, mug in hand, hair still damp from a rushed shower. He glanced up when he heard me, a faint smile crossing his face before he caught himself.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
We moved around each other with practiced ease, not quite relaxed, not tense either. The space between us was deliberate, a careful truce neither of us commented on.
"You heading out early again?" he asked.
"Yes."
He nodded. "Good luck with work."
"You too," I replied, then paused. "Let me know if you hear back."
He hesitated, then nodded. "I will."
At work, I kept myself busy.
Meetings. Reports. Calls that required attention but not creativity. It was the kind of day that demanded presence without engagement, which suited me just fine. My mind, however, kept circling back to the same point of irritation.
Not the interview.
The way Asher had said he stared at me.
Attention like that wasn't accidental. It was deliberate. And deliberate attention, once given, rarely stayed isolated. it always been like this whenever he told me someone was looking or talking to him i cant control my mind and this pisses me off too
By the time I returned home that evening, the irritation had dulled into something quieter. More patient.
Asher was in the living room again, cross-legged on the floor this time, papers spread out around him like he was attempting to organize chaos through sheer effort.
"You look productive," I said.
He looked up. "I'm pretending to be."
"That usually works," I replied.
He smiled faintly. "For you, maybe."
I set my things aside and sat in the armchair opposite him, maintaining distance. "Any news?"
He shook his head. "Nothing yet."
"How do you feel about it?"
He considered that longer than expected. "Nervous. And annoyed that I care this much."
"That's normal."
"Is it?" he asked, glancing at me. "You don't seem like you'd lose sleep over a job."
"I don't," I said. "But that doesn't mean it wouldn't register."
He studied me for a moment. "You're being… different."
"Different how?"
"More… attentively caring?," he said carefully.
The word hung between us.
"I've always paid attention," I replied.
"That's not what I meant."
I didn't push him to explain.
He returned to his notes, and for a while, we existed in shared quiet. It wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, it felt fragile in a way that demanded care.
Eventually, he spoke again.
"I keep thinking about that guy," he admitted. "The CEO."
There it was.
"What about him?" I asked.
"He didn't say anything wrong," Asher continued. "But it felt like he was… cataloguing me. Like I was a variable he hadn't planned for."
I didn't like the phrasing.
"Did that make you uncomfortable?" I asked.
"Yes," he said immediately. "I don't like being looked at that way."
Good.
"That kind of attention isn't neutral," I said. "You're right to trust your instinct."
He exhaled, relieved. "I thought maybe I was just being paranoid."
"You're not."
He looked at me then, really looked. "You sound sure."
"I am."
Silence settled again, heavier this time.
"Ziven," he said slowly, "can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
He huffed. "Do you ever feel like… people expect something from you before you've even done anything?"
I didn't answer right away.
"Yes," I said finally. "Often."
"How do you deal with it?"
"I decide whether their expectation matters," I replied. "Most of the time, it doesn't."
"And if it does?"
"Then I make sure I'm the one setting the terms."
He nodded, thoughtful. "I want to be able to do that."
"You will," I said. "It comes with time. And confidence."
"And experience?"
"Yes."
He smiled, faint but genuine. "You make it sound simple."
"It isn't," I admitted. "But it's manageable."
Later, after he'd gone to bed, I stood by the window again, city lights stretching endlessly beyond the glass. I took my phone out, stared at it, then set it back down without typing anything.
No messages.
No questions.
No actions.
Not yet.
The man from the interview hadn't done anything worth responding to. He existed, and that was all.
But existence alone was sometimes enough to warrant attention.
And if Asher mentioned him again
if that attention returned, sharpened or redirected
I wouldn't ignore it.
Not because I was threatened.
But because I noticed things.
And I didn't forget them.