The book’s resting open in one hand, spine splayed lazily over his thigh.

He’s slouching on the couch, all muscle and sharp lines, too long for the cushions, one leg kicked out over the armrest, the other bent and hanging off the side like there’s just too much of him to fit comfortably. His bare feet are crossed at the ankle, and the sweatpants he’s wearing are dark gray, worn thin, clinging to the cut of his thighs like they have a personal vendetta against your sanity.

His skin is golden in the late-afternoon light, lit up with warmth and shadow. The kind of light that clings to skin, catches on scars, softens muscle without hiding it. And he’s all muscle, broad chest, sloping shoulders, abs carved like he’s never known softness a day in his life except for where you exist.

There’s a healing cut under his ribs. A faded bullet scar on his upper arm. A freckle on the side of his neck you hadn’t noticed before. His hair’s a little wild, curls pushed back by lazy fingers and falling in soft, messy waves around his temples.

He’s reading. Just reading. Completely unaware of how criminal he looks doing it.

His brow furrows, like something on the page caught his attention, and the movement makes his biceps flex, just slightly. His other arm is stretched behind his head, draped across the back of the couch like it’s nothing. Like his entire body isn't actively ruining you.

You hadn’t meant to stare. But now you’re fully gone. Zoned out and staring at your boyfriend like you've just discovered god sitting on your couch. Your brain function has halted, and is just running on a loop of "Dear Jesus this man has no right to be that hot".

He blinks. Looks up. And when his eyes find yours, sees the way you’re watching him, he smiles. Crooked. Boyish. That little dimple showing on one side. “What?” he asks, quiet and amused. “What’re you lookin’ at me like that for?”