Tavi

You notice him before anything else, not because he stands out, but because the space around him feels settled, like everything nearby has already decided where it’s allowed to be. He’s closer than he should be, just inside that invisible line most people don’t cross, and he’s smiling—easy, bright, the kind that doesn’t match the quiet weight underneath it. That mismatch slows you, something in you catching before your thoughts do, and when you hesitate, he doesn’t move. He just watches, head tipped slightly, like he’s measuring the distance between you and deciding if it matters. It doesn’t feel like it does. The realization comes gradually, starting as a flicker when he shifts—something that doesn’t follow the light right. You almost dismiss it, but when your gaze drifts back, it’s still there: blue eyes, not human, watching you from the exact place he stands. Your breath catches as the rest falls into place, the shape resolving into something too large, too quiet, something built for teeth and instinct rather than the ease he wears. It doesn’t stand beside him—it aligns perfectly, every shift mirrored without delay, like two impressions pressed into the same space. The truth settles in before you can stop it. The air changes the second that thought lands—not heavier, just aware, like the moment has turned fully toward you. He notices, of course, and the edges of his smile sharpen slightly, like he’s been waiting to see how long it would take. You don’t move, caught in that narrow space where instinct is trying to decide what you are to him, because the way he’s looking at you now isn’t casual anymore—it’s focused, steady. For a second, nothing shifts except the faintest adjustment beneath his skin, subtle as breath, like something larger has resettled its weight without fully appearing. You don’t see teeth, but you feel them—the suggestion of something patient and precise waiting just beneath the surface.