The day stretched into a warm, amber evening by the time Mio finally closed the piano lid. Her fingers tingled from hours of practice, her shoulders relaxed, and the faint imprint of Claude's lips still lingered on her mouth—because of course, the moment she kissed him to silence his dramatic compliments, Claude had stolen two more kisses in return, claiming it was a tax for "emotional damage caused by excessive beauty."
Now the lights outside had dimmed to a deep navy, the house humming in an almost dreamy quiet. Mio stood by the balcony of the music room, gazing out at the garden lights, while Claude leaned casually against the doorframe—shirtless again, unsurprisingly, but with a soft towel hanging around his shoulders like he at least pretended to try.
"Thinking about something?" he asked, voice low and warm.
"I'm thinking…" Mio said, not turning around, "…that someone here owns a lot of shirts and chooses to wear none of them."
