The sunlight seeping through the narrow basement window didn't make the day feel any brighter. We were left to shuffle around, weak from hunger, careful not to show the full extent of our suffering. During the day, words were dangerous. Every syllable could be overheard, misinterpreted, or used against us.
So we didn't talk much. Not him. Not me. Not anyone. Silence had become a shield, a way to survive without drawing unnecessary attention.
But my eyes betrayed me.
Whenever he moved across the room, even just adjusting the knife at his side or pacing along the walls, I couldn't help glancing at him. Subtly, carefully, trying to appear casual. And almost always, I caught him looking back.
The first few times, I froze. His gaze met mine, sharp and unflinching. I felt a flutter in my chest, heat rising to my cheeks, and I quickly looked away, pretending to inspect the floor or the shadows. But the moment lingered. His eyes had a weight to them, a quiet assessment, and for a second I wondered if he noticed how much I noticed him.
By midday, it became a game—an unspoken challenge. I would glance briefly, measuring the distance between us, and he would meet my gaze, expression unreadable. Sometimes the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest amusement. I'd feel my heart skip a beat, and my gaze would dart away as if the act itself were dangerous.
The others never noticed. Clara was too exhausted, huddled against the cold floor, and James's focus was elsewhere. It was just the two of us, circling in silence, a tension that neither of us could—or would—acknowledge openly.
And then night came.
The quiet dark of the basement gave us freedom, gave us privacy. While the others slept, curled into blankets or each other, I would sit against the wall, knees drawn up, letting the fear drain slowly from my body. And he would lean against his wall, knife resting at his side, posture casual but attentive.
It was during these hours that we spoke.
The conversation started cautiously at first—soft words, almost whispers. Casual observations about the cold floor, the shadows, the faint echo of footsteps outside the basement. But gradually, it became a game, a dance. I teased him lightly, letting subtle jokes slip past the line of overt defiance. He would respond with clipped words, dry comments, or faint amusement, all carefully measured.
I noticed every flicker of emotion, every slight reaction. His jaw would tighten at the right moment. His eyes would linger a fraction too long. And I learned to use it, pushing subtly, letting him notice, but never letting the others see.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, exhaustion would catch me, and I'd lean back, head resting against the wall. My eyelids heavy, I'd let a small, unguarded smile curl at my lips.
He would notice. Always. And almost always, he would mirror it—just a faint, brief twist of his lips. No words. Just the acknowledgment, quiet, subtle, dangerous.
And it made my chest flutter in a way I couldn't control. It made my heart beat faster, just knowing that he noticed me, that he was aware, even if he didn't care—or pretended not to.
I wondered, sometimes, as sleep tugged at my limbs, if it was possible to feel butterflies for someone who had the power to kill you.
And maybe… just maybe… I did.