Taking a measured step back, I fixed my gaze on him and asked, “Mind telling me what you’re doing in my room?”

Kenzo’s eyes flicked toward my phone resting on the bedside table, his expression sharp. “You didn’t answer my question,” he hissed.

My fingers curled into fists. “I don’t owe you an explanation for my private conversations. So, I’ll ask again—what are you doing here?”

He let out a slow, irritated breath. “Your door wasn’t locked.”

“It wasn’t open ...