A short knock on the bookshelf door startled me.
I froze mid-motion, my hands hovering over the buttons of my blouse, before exhaling. I hadn't even heard him come into his room last night despite me tossing and turning for a while, which meant he and Nate must have stayed up late.
"Give me a second," I called, fastening the last button and smoothing the fabric. Then I walked toward the vanity, taking a seat. "Come in."
The bookshelf door shifted, swinging open just enough for Mark to step through. He was already dressed—dark slacks, a crisp navy button-down shirt rolled to his elbows, looking effortlessly put together. If he was tired from the night before, he didn't show it.
"Morning," he said, his voice still a little rough from sleep.
"Morning," I answered while I reached for my brush, "how did it go last night?"