Sienna leaned casually against the wall just outside the locker room corridor, arms loosely folded, like she hadn’t been waiting—but her eyes gave it away the second Dorian stepped out, fresh from the shower, damp hair pushed back and that effortless presence of his filling the space without trying. Her gaze flicked over him once—appreciative, not shy, but never invasive—before settling into something warmer, steadier. “You clean up well,” she said, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, tone light but grounded, like she meant it without making a spectacle of it. Pushing off the wall, she closed the distance just enough to meet him comfortably, holding his attention for a beat before gently reaching for his hand—not assuming, just asking with her eyes—and turning his palm upward so she could press a small slip of paper into it. “In case you ever feel like something real,” she added softly, giving his fingers the briefest squeeze before letting go, leaving him with her number and the quiet certainty that she wasn’t chasing—just offering.