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I don’t know how long I stay like this, justwatchingher.

The room remains still, save for the faint rustle of sheets whenever she shifts. The curtains sway slightly from the breeze outside, but it’sherthat holds my attention.

Her lips part with a soft exhale, her nose wrinkling slightly—reacting to some distant dream.

My fingers twitch with the urge to trace that wrinkle, to smooth it away. But I don’t. Not yet. I don’t want to wake her fromthis.

Eventually, her breathing shifts.

Her lashes flutter against her cheeks, a slow, delicate movement as she stirs, shifting slightly against me. The way she wakes ismesmerizing—like watching a flower bloom under the first light of morning. Her lips part in a quiet yawn, stretching into a lazy, soft pout.

Her hand, still resting on me, flexes slightly—fingers curling against my skin—before awareness settles in.

Before she realizes she’s clinging to me.

Her eyes, still hazy with sleep, flick up to meet mine—deep brown, softer when she’s groggy.

She blinks several times, her mind likely catching up to where she is.Whoshe’s pressed against. Then, a soft pink flush spreads across her cheeks as if on cue.

“You’re holding me hostage,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep.

Her eyes widen, and she jerks her hand away as if I’ve burned her. “I wasn’t—” she starts, but the deepening blush betrays her. “You’re lying.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, but I let her cling to whatever story makes her feel better.

She pushes the covers off and sits up, her hair falling in messy waves over her shoulders. I watch as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stretches, the hem of her oversized shirt riding up just enough to test my restraint.

She either doesn’t notice the way I’m looking at her—or she’s pretending not to.

I push out of bed and head to the bathroom, the cool tile underfoot shaking away the remnants of sleep.

But when the hot water cascades over me, it does little to clear the thoughts running wild in my head—thoughts of her.

When I step out, a towel slung low around my waist, Aria’s sitting on the bed, scrolling through her phone.

She looks up, and for a split second, her gaze lingers—innocent but notoblivious.

Then she quickly looks away, her blush making another appearance.

I chuckle under my breath. “Like what you see?” I tease, running the towel through my hair as I head toward the walk-in closet.

“Youwish,” she shoots back, but her voice is softer than usual.

I hear her footsteps behind me, the faint creak of the floor as she hesitates in the doorway.

When I glance over my shoulder, she’s standing there, arms folded, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.

I pull a clean shirt from the rack, but before I can slip it on, she steps closer and plucks another one.

“This color looks better on you,” she says, holding a deep navy shirt. “The gray makes you look tired.”

I arch a brow. “You’re giving me fashion advice now?”

She shrugs, her fingers skimming over the rows of ties. “Someone has to. You weara lotof dark colors.”

“It’s kind of my thing.”

She pulls out a burgundy tie and holds it up. “Try this. It’s not black, but it’s still serious.”