Phoenix:
I’d barely made it through the door when I saw it—him—sitting on the edge of the couch with something resting on his lap. Something familiar. Something that sent my stomach flipping like I’d just missed a step down a dark stairwell.
My sketchbook.
Shit.
I froze mid-step, keys still dangling from my hand. Grease smudged across my forearm from a long day at the shop. My hair was half-tied, my boots streaked with dried mud. But none of that mattered.
Not when that book was open in his hands.
He looked up slowly, like he’d known I’d walk in right then. His expression was unreadable. Intense, but not mad. Not even close. It was almost... reverent.
“Where did you—”
“It fell,” he said quietly, closing the cover with care. “I was grabbing your jeans like you asked. Pulled the draw
