I should be used to it by now—the chandeliers, the portraits that watch me like I'm a specimen under glass, the way my footsteps echo off the walls as if announcing my every move to anyone who might be listening.

But I'm not.

The door shuts behind me with a soft click, and I hear the lock engage. A familiar sound. A sound I've come to recognize as the moment I stop belonging to myself and start belonging to him.

The air is heavy with something floral, expensive. Unmistakably me.

He's dressed down, for him. White shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks like he's been waiting.