James Sinclair
Olivia stood at the sink, my robe draped loosely around her, the fabric oversized on her smaller frame.
The sight of her wearing it sent an unexpected chill racing through me, one that settled somewhere between my ribs and spread like a low flame. The way the robe clung to her in places, revealing glimpses of bare skin, was enough to tighten something deep in my chest. It was maddeningly intimate, seeing her like this—wrapped in something of mine, looking so effortlessly beautiful.
She moved with a hurried tension, splashing water on her face as if trying to shake something off. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck, water dripping down her skin and disappearing into the fabric. My eyes followed those drops against my will, imagining the path they carved beneath th
