His eyes are coffee brown—
the kind that stay warm long after the cup cools.
Some days they meet mine with a sincerity
I’m almost afraid to hold,
like he’s offering something he doesn’t realise.
Something I’ve spent years trying not to want.

In sunlight, they soften—
turn lighter, almost amber,
like someone stirred a drop of honey
into something already sweet.
There’s a gentleness there,
a warmth that makes the world feel less sharp
for a fleeting second.

At dawn, though—
they have a different story.
Quieter.
As if he carries dreams he never speaks of,
shadows of thoughts he’ll never admit to,
and I catch them only in those unguarded moments
between sleep and what he pretends to feel.

And then there’s that other look—
that impish curl of light he doesn’t hide,
the spark that tugs at the corner of my caution,
makes me wonder what falling could feel like
if he wasn’t so determined to stand his ground.
It’s ridiculous how someone can make you
wish for a different version of yourself—
one that wasn’t stitching her heart together
one careful thread at a time.

But I know better.
I know the universe doesn’t redraw its lines
just because a pair of coffee-brown eyes
decided to look at me
like I was something soft,
something worth choosing.

So I breathe. I smile.
I let his charm skim the surface of me
and go no deeper—
even when a small, foolish part of me
wonders how it would feel
to stop pretending I don’t fall in love every time you look at me.