“You’re tracking paint onto my porch, Maisie,” Julian muttered, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that always made her spine prickle.

Maisie didn’t back down. She tilted her chin up, her paint-stained fingers clutching the edge of her sketchbook like a shield. “And you’re hoarding all the light on this floor, Julian. I just came to borrow some sunshine.”

He stepped closer, blocking out the hallway behind him. “I don’t have any sunshine to give you.”