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He finds it so endearing how you think he doesn't know.
As if you think he's some kind of fool with his head in the clouds not to notice how you glance over at him any chance you get—your eyes darting away the second his own catch yours. As if the very look in your eyes wasn't obvious enough.
He knows.
But he'd rather not tell you. Because to him it's much more interesting watching and waiting to see how long you'd last. If someday you'd muster up the courage to tell him.
What would he even do then? He doesn't really think about that part much. He doubts you'd ever tell him. You don't strike him as that type. You look like the kind of girl who’d rather vanish into thin air than risk exposing herself. And maybe that’s what makes it so fun.
So he teases—flirts even. Brushes his hand against yours in the truck after missions, always insisting you sit beside him. He doesn’t miss how you stiffen up, how you jump just slightly at the touch, how you sit there frozen like a board until the ride ends. Cute. When he locks eyes with you too long for you to handle, and you’re the one who has to look away first. That’s even better.
He revels in it—the nervous smiles, the quick retreats, the way you unravel under something as simple as proximity. He’s never really cared about romance, never chased after it, but with you? It’s… amusing. Maybe if he weren’t tied up in his own long game, bound and loyal to his own mission, he wouldn’t mind a girl like you for himself.
But that isn’t the world he lives in. So he keeps quiet. Keeps playing. Lets you think he’s oblivious. Because in a way, it’s sweeter that way—for both of you.