Her hair was wet.
Steam still clung faintly to her skin.
A white towel was wrapped securely around her.
For one impossible second, neither of us moved.
Her eyes widened.
But not with the panic I expected.
There was no gasp.
No frantic apology.
No immediate retreat.
Instead, she looked at me.
Really looked.
Then her expression softened into something almost impossible to read.
“Sorry,” she said quietly.
A pause.
“Wrong room.”
She backed out and closed the door.
I sat upright.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
There were two bathrooms upstairs.
Michelle had lived in that house for twelve years.
My bedroom was at the opposite end of the hallway.
She had not taken a wrong turn.
I knew it.
And somehow, I knew she knew that I knew.
By the time I entered the kitchen, she was fully dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweater.
Coffee was already brewing.
