The late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the art studio, catching motes of dust in the golden light. Daisy leaned over the table, her pencil hovering above her sketchbook. She could hear the faint scratching of Harry’s pencil from across the room, steady and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

“Your lines are too cautious,” Harry said without looking up. His voice was low, almost amused.

She glanced at him. “Maybe I like being cautious.”

His lips quirked into the hint of a smirk. “Or maybe you are scared of making something messy.”

There was a teasing challenge in his tone, but something...