Grayson closed the panel with more force than necessary and grabbed a shirt from his closet, putting it on as he made his way toward the bedroom door. He needed to sit down and slowly try to reconstruct the missing days through whatever trace he had left.
The door slid open.
Grayson stopped dead in his tracks.
His penthouse looked objectively different. Not dramatically so, not in any way he could immediately pinpoint what it was. But there was something that hadn't been there before.
Homey, was that it?
But he quickly dismissed it.
Grayson did not do 'homey.'
Even if he couldn't remember what he did, he surely would prioritize comfort over efficiency. Every piece of furniture had been selected for aesthetic impact and practical function.
And yet.
There were things that hadn't been there before.
