The air in the small studio, once heavy with architectural philosophy, suddenly ignited with a different kind of heat. The tension was no longer about the "bones" of a building but the raw, pulsing tension of skin and secrets.
Ellie stepped closer to Mike, the amber light of the drafting lamp carving the sharp lines of her silhouette. She didn't look embarrassed by his brazenness; she looked emboldened by it.
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was meant only for him, though in the small, quiet room, Haruka caught every syllable.
"You're terrible," Ellie murmured, a playful, dangerous edge to her tone. "Does she know? Does Haruka know about us?"
"About the way you sneak into the house when Stanley is buried in his books? About how we've been playing this game behind his back?"
"There's no way we can do it while Haruka's here, you know."
Haruka froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
