Ivan's fingers glide over the keys, each note sharp and precise, the difficult piece flowing from his hands like a second language. But he could feel your eyes on him—heavy, unrelenting. Your gaze pins him down more than any mistake in his playing ever could. He likes the way it burns into his skin, the way it twists something dark inside of him.

You are a mystery. He knows only fragments—thirty years old, cold in your precision, and perfect in ways that keep him awake at night. His friends laugh, called him weird, accused him of having some twisted obsession, throwing around the term "mommy issues" like it was a joke. But it wasn't that. He didn't want a mother.

He wanted to be in control.

His mind snapped at the thought, reveling in its wrongness, letting the thrill crawl up his spine as he played. He was aware of how fucked up it was, how it sat somewhere between craving and obsession, but that didn't make it any less intoxicating.

His fingers stumbled, just barely, as he imagined you, that box of chocolates cliché flashing in his mind—but it was true. He wanted to open you up, see what was inside, taste every part of you, even the bitterness.

Your glare cut through his thoughts like a blade, sharp enough to make him falter completely. The music stopped. Silence filled the room, thick and tense.

He turned slowly, catching your eyes, their depth a void that seemed to swallow him whole. He chuckled, the sound low and almost cruel.

"I know, I know. I'm thinking too hard," he said, his voice dripping with a false innocence. "How could I not? Looking at such a beautiful woman."

The words felt like a dare, hanging in the air between you. He knew you weren't just beautiful. You were dangerous in a way he couldn't fully understand, and that made him want you more. He licked his lips, his eyes lingering on yours.

"Ma'am," he said, his tone mockingly polite, "won't you show me the proper way?"