Phoebe's POV
The strange, heavy tension in the room seemed to press against me. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and addressed Harold with deliberate coolness. "Mr. Bailey, I'll have this handkerchief cleaned before I return it."
His striking appearance had caught me off guard earlier, and I'd accepted the handkerchief without a second thought. Now, with it pressed against my skin, reality hit me. This handkerchief was probably some exclusive, limited piece—something uniquely Harold's.
Was it wrong to use something so personal for something as mundane as wiping sweat? The intimacy of it felt overwhelming. But I couldn't just toss it after one use.
I hesitated, clutching the fabric, completely lost about what his gesture actually meant.
"No rush," Harold replied, seemingly unbothered by my cool demeanor. He nodded casually. "Just bring it back when we see each other again."
