Ambrose stepped into the hallway, pausing just long enough to glance back at Gwendolyn. She stood in the middle of the living room like a deer caught in headlights—still wearing his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, hem brushing her thighs, bare feet curling against the cool hardwood.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, keeping his voice casual, easy. “You take the guest room tonight. Those two T-shirts on the dresser? Brand new, tags still on. Never worn. Use them as pajamas, whatever’s comfortable. Washer-dryer combo is out on the balcony—front-load, has a steam cycle if you want to freshen anything up. Just toss your wet stuff in there. Fridge is empty right now; hasn’t seen groceries in months. I’m gonna run downstairs to the 24-hour mart and grab some water, fruit, maybe a few basics. Wo
