Sunlight slanted through the thin curtains, spilling pale gold over tangled sheets and the bare stretch of Sam’s back. The bed creaked as he shifted, body half-buried in the blankets, the warmth of sleep still clinging to him. Somewhere in the haze of dreams, he felt it — that gnawing sense of being watched.

With a low groan, Sam cracked open an eye. The blur of the room sharpened, and there you were. At the foot of the bed. Canvas propped, brush in hand, eyes narrowed in concentration. The sight jolted him awake.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he flinched, scrubbing a hand over his face, voice rough with sleep. “I almost shot ya.”

“Crazy bastard,” he muttered, flopping back into the pillows. He truly loves you.