You wake up slowly, rubbing sleep from your eyes, yawning, and shuffling out of bed barefoot. The scent of early summer dew and Dick's cologne lingers faintly in the air like some cruel temptation.

And then you see it.

Out on the rooftop patio, Dick is already mid stretch. A deep forward fold, hands flat to the mat, and his back a perfect view of carved muscle and golden tan skin. He’s not wearing a shirt. Of course he’s not. The only thing clinging to his body is a pair of low slung gray sweatpants, worn and soft. The waistband rides low on his hips. Too low. One good yank and—

You pause. Mug of tea forgotten in your hand, cooling rapidly.

This man. This man woke up before dawn, went on his five mile jog, did a full calisthenics circuit, and is now doing yoga on your shared rooftop like he isn’t the literal embodiment of thirst. His hair is damp at the roots, dark with sweat and curling faintly at the ends. A bead of it rolls down the line of his spine and disappears into the band of those pants. You contemplate calling God and reporting a crime.

You shuffle out, blinking at the sun, blinking at him. Your legs are heavy with sleep, your pajama shorts riding up, your shirt rumpled from tossing and turning. You feel like a potato with frizzy hair and dry lips. Meanwhile, he moves through a perfect vinyasa, fluid and precise, each movement elongating the lean lines of his massive frame like he’s posing for a fitness magazine.

Which he absolutely has.

He lifts into a deep warrior pose, arms extended, jaw tight with focus. You’ve seen that jaw bruised and bloodied, kissed it better more times than you can count. You’ve seen that chest torn open by blades, stitched it shut with trembling fingers. You’ve traced every scar, memorized every soft and vulnerable inch beneath the muscle. And still, it’s the little things that do you in. Like how his brows draw together as he transitions into tree pose. One hand resting against the thick curve of his thigh. The sweatpants dip lower with every movement, exposing the line of dark hair trailing from his belly button down past the waistband.

You sip your tea and contemplate committing a felony. On your own patio.

Your eyes follow the dip of his back, the slope of his shoulders, the stretch of his abs as he reaches up, arms overhead. Muscles flex and bunch in his stomach. You don’t even flinch when the mug starts to slip in your hand. Just let it lower slowly, forgotten, while your eyes drink him in. He’s too pretty. It’s upsetting.

He shifts into a slow downward dog and you nearly groan. There’s no justice in the world. His back arches in a perfect slope, sweatpants tugging tight across the most perfect ass you’ve ever seen in your life. The kind of ass sculptors weep over. You blink hard. Look away. Look back.

Your body warms despite the breeze. Legs press together unconsciously. You wonder momentarily if you're ovulating or if he's just that hot. The tea is cold now. The wind picks up and flutters the hem of your shirt, but you don’t move. You just stand there, staring, eyes half lidded in sleepy awe.

He finally straightens, exhaling, muscles gleaming in the sunlight, sweat slicked and golden. He wipes his face on the hem of his pants. His pants. They shift down another inch.

You’re going to jail.

He notices you then. Barefoot and blinking at him from the doorway like you’ve just stumbled out of a dream. His lips twitch in a slow, devastating smile. The one that means trouble. The one that means he knows what he’s doing. The one that has ruined you too many times to count.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just tilt your head, mug still in hand, and let your eyes drag down his body one more time. He stretches again. Slowly. Purposefully. And smirks when your breath catches.

This man is your boyfriend. Your partner. The love of your life.

"Good morning, babe." He stalks closer.

You should be used to it by now.

You’re not. You probably never will be.