The click of the door behind him was sharp enough to slice through his pulse. Ethan didn’t look up right away; he’d been reviewing case notes, trying to anchor himself in paper and ink, the one world that still made sense. Then he heard her voice. Bright. Commanding. “Lock the door, Mr. Hale. However you like. Key, deadbolt—your choice.” His head snapped up. Vivienne stood framed by the soft lamplight, and for a second his brain refused to translate what it saw: plaid skirt, white shirt knotted high at the ribs, knee socks. Every inch of her screaming forbidden. Every inch of it calculated. “Viv…” His throat rasped her name like a warning, like a plea. She smiled, slow and deliberate. “What? You’re the one who said I should express myself. Consider this… self-expression.” Then the s
