Adelyn had a habit —a quiet one.
One she had never spoken of —nor allowed anyone close enough to notice.
On days when exhaustion weighed too heavily on her bones … or when her body felt out of rhythm, dragged down by a dull, persistent ache —she avoided her usual clothes.
On such days, she preferred comfort over appearance.
Loose silhouettes.
Soft fabrics.
Clothes that didn't cling.
Men's hoodies and trousers.
Simple. Unrestrictive. Safe.
This was something no one had ever known.
No one had ever had the chance to.
So then —
How did he?
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the folded clothes in her hands. Her gaze remained fixed on Dylan —sharp and searching.
"You haven't answered me yet?" she said again, her voice quieter than before but far more pointed. "How are you so sure that I have clothes that would fit you, Mr. Warren?"
There was a pause.
A brief one.
But heavy enough to stretch the air between them.
