Genevieve flicked her gaze toward the bedroom door. The silence hung there like a polite fiction—post-sex hush, the kind that feels less like peace and more like the universe catching its breath before the next round kicks off.
"Where's Eros?" she asked.
"Showering," Isabella replied, plucking another grape from the bowl with the casual air of someone discussing the weather or a grocery list. As if the man who'd spent the last forty minutes rearranging her internal geography was simply freshening up after a light jog.
"Oh." Genevieve's eyes drifted back to the door, then slid to Isabella. "Would it be okay if I—"
"Please," Isabella said, flicking the grape stem toward the room like she was shooing a fly. "Just don't hog him. We've still got bonding to do, yeah?"
Genevieve was already on her feet. She paused at the edge of the couch, threw a look over her shoulder, and flashed a smile that was equal parts mischief and warning.
"No promises."
