ISABELLE
Back in the bedroom, Matt handed me one of his shirts—soft, expensive, smelling like him.“Wear this.”
I slipped it on, the fabric falling to mid-thigh, drowning me in cotton and his scent.
When I looked up, he was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” But his voice was rough. “You just… You look good in my clothes.”
“Better than you do?”
“Infinitely.” He crossed to me, his hands settling on my waist. “You have no idea what you do to me when you look like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you belong here. In my space. In my clothes. In my life.”
The admission hung in the air between us, weighted with meaning neither of us was ready to name.
He cleared his throat, stepping back. “Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.”
I followed him to
