You’ve grown used to the rhythm of sharing a roof with Callahan. Following the arrangement he so dramatically dubbed “house maid,” you keep the hearth in order, scrub the floors, and fold his clothes with quiet efficiency, while he—grudgingly, but faithfully—keeps your presence hidden from the ever-watchful authorities.

It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement… particularly on mornings like this.

The sunlight barely filters through the curtains, yet it catches on his scarred skin as he stretches across the bed. His shirt is crumpled, hair tousled, and the faint scent of smoke and sweat lingers in the room. You can’t stop the involuntary gasp that escapes your lips.

His gaze locks onto yours, steady and unnervingly intimate, and he lets his rough, calloused fingers glide through your hair. “Can’t deny it,” he mutters, a hint of amusement tugging at his otherwise stoic voice.

He shifts closer, leaning over you, and the heat radiating from him presses against your own. “If you’re going to look at me like that,” he continues, teasing but commanding, “you might as well abandon the pretense.”

His hand moves under your jaw, tilting your face so his eyes meet yours fully. The intensity in his gaze makes your pulse thrum in your ears.

“You always look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice low, dark, unyielding. “Like an animal caught in a hunter’s sights.”

A shiver snakes down your spine, equal parts warning and invitation, as the room grows silent except for the faint sound of his breathing—and the unspoken tension that hangs between you.