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“You never moved out,” she murmurs.
“Technically,” I say, following her in, “I just... stayed.”
She turns to look at me then. Her face is open in a way that makes my heart trip over itself. She sees me—all of me. The boy who needs to be seen, the one who needs her laughter like oxygen. Her gaze softens. “You stayed for me.”
I lift a shoulder, aiming for nonchalance. “You’re better with me around.”
She steps closer. One hand at my chest, over my heart. Her voice drops, quiet but steady. “And I’m better with you here.”
My throat tightens. I cover it with a grin, sliding my arms around her waist. “You’re not just saying that because I’m about to dress like a gothic prince and blow everyone else out of the water?”
“Oh, I’mdefinitelysaying that,” she teases, but then her hand curls behind my neck, and she kisses me.
Not needy. Not rushed.
Just… right.
I deepen it for a moment, then pull back and whisper against her lips, “Now help me pick something slutty.”
She laughs, and I swear, I’d burn this whole world down just to hear that sound again. And sinks into the velvet chair like it’s a throne, one leg crossed over the other, arms draped across the armrests, and an expression on her face like she owns the world—and worse, like she ownsme. Which, fine. She does. But she doesn’t have tolookthat smug about it.
“I feel like I should be paying admission,” she says, eyeing the runway of carpet I’ve cleared between racks. “Do I get wine service with this show?”
“You get something better,” I say, flourishing the collar of my robe and dropping it dramatically to the floor.
She whistles low under her breath. “You’re naked.”
“Iwasborn to wear nothing but moonlight,” I say with a wink. “But I’m willing to make sacrifices for fashion.”
Her laugh is breathy, amused, and I canfeelher watching me as I slip into the first look. A toga. Real, authentic, stolen-from-an-actual-Roman-legionnaire kind of toga.
Luna squints. “You look like you’re about to give a lecture on aqueducts.”
“Excuse me,” I say, affronted. “This is history. I’m embodying centuries of empire and excess.”
“You’re embodying someone’s drunk uncle at a costume party.”
I sigh, dramatic as always, and yank the toga off before reaching for the next one. A velvet trench coat embroidered with silver suns, no shirt underneath, just layers of confidence and a whisper of chest hair.
Luna pretends to consider it. “Closer. You’re getting there.”
“Next, I’ll wear just this necklace and my overwhelming sexual magnetism.”
“You’d still manage to trip over your own ego.”
The third outfit is worse—leather pants and a mesh shirt. She doesn’t even let me fully put it on.
“No.”
“I didn’t even—”
“No, Silas.”
“Fine.” I toss it over my shoulder. “You don’t appreciate my vision.”
“Oh, I appreciate it,” she says, smirking. “But I also love you too much to let you be arrested for crimes against good taste.”
My chest stutters on that word—love—but I keep it buried beneath a smirk and a bad accent as I slide into the fourth outfit: a sleek black suit, tailored to filth, lapels sharp enough to wound, and a shirt just sheer enough to suggest a sin or two. No tie. I unbutton the collar and let my neck breathe.