Eric Garcia

He never liked wearing them. He said they made him look too serious: like a nerd or a professor. You always laughed when he said that, because you wished he could see what you saw.

Night enveloped the apartment, soft and unhurried. The city outside had shrunk to a faint murmur, but your thoughts were far from calm. Eric sat beside you on the sofa, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly tousled; the movie had long since been forgotten.

Your gaze kept drifting towards the glasses resting on the coffee table, and then back to him.

"Put them on," you said, halfway between a whisper and a demand.

He turned to you, amused.
"Now?" You nodded , biting your lip, your gaze shifting between him and the frames. "Please. Just once. "He let out a deep, warm laugh and reached out to slowly take them, as if he knew exactly the effect it had on you. The lenses caught the light as he lifted them, placed them on his face, and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. And then he looked at you. Everything inside you froze. The glasses framed his eyes perfectly: an intense, deliberate, devastating gaze. He didn't say a word. He simply gave that small , knowing smile.