Then desire hits me square in the chest.
She’s wearing my shirt. Nothing else. The hem skims her thighs, fabric soft and rumpled, sleeves too long for her arms. I know—know—there’s nothing beneath it.
Fuck.
She hears the door and turns slowly, eyes finding mine and holding. There’s no smile. No tension. Just quiet attention.
I don’t speak. I can’t yet.
“What’s wrong?” she asks eventually.
The concern in her voice lands harder than any accusation ever could. It slices clean through me.
“Someone’s trying to destroy my gallery,” I say.
The words fall flat between us.
Her face drains of color—not shock, not confusion. Something else. Too fast. Too complete.
I notice.
Silence stretches.
Her fingers curl into the fabric of the shirt at her thighs. A tiny movement. Unconscious. Protective.
My chest tightens.
“Sienna,” I murmur, stepping closer, closing the space between us. “Look at me.”
She doesn’t.
That alone tells me too much.
I lift my hand and tilt her chin gently, careful not to force her. Her eyes finally meet mine—glassy, too bright, holding something back.
“What do you know?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she whispers.
It’s a lie. Clean. Immediate. Instinctive.
My jaw tightens. “Sienna—”
“I said nothing.”
She turns too quickly, movement sharp, almost panicked. She grabs her clothes and disappears into the bathroom. The door shuts between us with a quiet finality that lands like a punch to the chest.
I stand there, pulse thudding in my ears, staring at the door like it might open if I will it hard enough.
Too pale.
Too fast.
Too defensive.
The pieces shift in my mind, rearranging themselves into a shape I don’t want to see.
Water starts running on the other side of the door.
