Élisa's enthusiasm hadn't evaporated. It still pulsed beneath her skin, burned softly in her golden eyes — but by some miracle or sheer discipline, she had refrained from undressing in Dylan's room.
For now.
"Hasn't Dylan already seen more skin than that?" she asked suddenly, sounding thoughtful. Her voice rose into the room and hung there like lazy mist, clinging to nothing — and everything.
Maggie rolled her eyes in a slow, reluctant motion, as if even gravity was tired of helping her. Then she let her face fall into her palm, visibly drained.
"Circumstances are different," she finally replied, her fingers spread just enough to let one tired eye peek through. "And where we come from… showing more skin to a man usually means you love him. Or something like that."
Dylan didn't move. He knew better than to speak. This was a moment to observe, catalog, breathe shallowly — like an animal cautious in a forest full of charming, unpredictable predators.
