He could see them. Could see your shoes.
He was tucked away in this dark little hideyhole, knees to chest, just waiting for the perfect moment to snag somebody unlucky enough to pass by. But instead of a victim, he got this. The sound of your ragged panting and those exhausted groans as you came right to a halt in front of his face.
Ugh.
Those shoes were disgusting.
Nothing but holes, mud, blood, and god knows what else you’d stepped in.
But then you flexed your heel just like that—
Oh.
He squinted. Open-toe heels… would be better. Something to showcase that arch properly. M—maybe even get your, your toes painted—yeah, that would look good. so good.
Franco’s eyes were glowing in the dark, those sharp blues roaming up and down, tracing the line from the sole of your foot to the tight flex of your calf. He was so caught up in the eye candy he didn't catch
the giggle before it escaped.
He saw the exact moment you froze.
You bolted. A full sprint that left him grabbing at thin air, his fingers missing your ankle by a hair! As you ran away, you looked back just in time to see a small, frustrated fist slam into the dirt where you’d just been.
