Phei stepped out of the bathroom, towel-dried hair still damp and tousled, dressed in fresh dark jeans and a simple black tee that hugged his shoulders just right. The walk-in closet doors were still open, soft morning light spilling across the racks in warm golden pools, and there she was—Maya—already seated at the makeup vanity in the far corner.
She perched on the cushioned chair in nothing but one of his oversized button-down shirts she must have pulled from his side of the closet while he showered.
The hem skimmed mid-thigh, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the top three buttons left undone, so the collar framed her delicate collarbones and the faint shadow between her medium, high breasts.
Her silver hair—still damp from the shower—hung in loose, shimmering waves down her back, catching every stray beam like liquid starlight, strands clinging softly to her neck and shoulders in dark, wet ribbons.
