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... ween us. Sienna flipped a slice of toast with a lazy flick of her wrist, eyes half-lidded but movements crisp. It felt almost normal. Domestic, even.

But my mind wasn’t on breakfast anymore.

It was on her hands.

Her movements.

Her job.

"Sienna," I said, voice even.

She glanced up. "Yeah?"

"Hold still for a second."

"Uh... why?" she said slowly, slicing through an avocado with clean, practiced motion.

"Just a theory," I said, ...

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