After her shower, Petty dried off and hung her towel on the hook, then turned to the unopened bag of clothes waiting nearby. Inside, she found a navy blue men’s tracksuit and a pair of socks.
She checked the tag. Definitely Franco’s size.
Sliding into the sweats, she found herself swallowed up in fabric. The sleeves and pants were way too long, so she rolled them up, then wrapped herself in the heavy army coat and reached for the door.
The second her hand touched the knob, someone pushed the door open from the other side.
Steam drifted out around her. Franco stood there, looking down at her through the haze, eyes taking in the sight. Petty’s hair was twisted into a messy bun, though a few damp strands clung stubbornly to her cheeks, making her delicate face look painfully young.
The waistband of Franco’s sweats was hopelessly loose, so she’d tucked in the top. It pulled tight across her chest, hinting at curves that felt totally out of place on that innocent face.
Franco’s gaze sharpened. “All set?” His voice came out rougher than usual.
Petty didn’t answer. She gathered up her own clothes, determined to walk right past him, but he didn’t move. His hand was still on the door, arm right in her way.
“I’m going to sleep,” she said, glancing up. The lopsided bun on her head wobbled with the movement.
Even her hair looked annoyed.
Franco’s eyes flicked past her into the bathroom. He saw the half-full buckets of hot and cold water and her towel hanging up neatly.
A second later, he let go, and Petty slipped out quickly, not even glancing back or stepping foot in that room again.
From the stairwell, heavy footsteps echoed. Petty’s little bun bobbed along as she disappeared down the hall. Only after she was gone did Franco finally head into the bathroom.
No soap, but a soft, sweet scent hung in the air.

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