"You locked the guest room," Heather said, voice flat.
Caius didn't look up. Just turned a page in his book, slow and deliberate. "Did I?"
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Play dumb."
That got him. His gaze lifted, soft and unreadable. The lighting in the room was warm and low—amber hues casting lazy shadows along the sharp edge of his jaw, catching on his collarbones beneath a half-unbuttoned night shirt.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, veins faintly visible under smooth skin.
Heather stood in the doorway, caught half in shadow, one foot still out in the hall.
"I want to head to bed," she said.
"Then sleep."
"In the guest room, I mean."
He raised a brow. "Our room is here."
"Not 'our room.' Your room. I'm not staying in here."
"You're already here."
The way he said it—quiet and amused—it sparked something sharp in her chest. She wanted to scream.
