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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.