The day had been still. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones.

Soft sunlight bled in through your home’s half-closed blinds, painting warm stripes across the hardwood floor. The air held the cozy weight of a day off, no alarms, no looming sense of urgency. Just the low hum of life outside the window, a distant barking dog, a car rolling by, the occasional flap of wings from a passing bird.

You were halfway through a book you weren’t really reading when a knock interrupted the peace. Three taps, quick, confident. Then silence. You frowned, setting your book aside and padding barefoot across the living room. You weren’t expecting anyone. No one should be here. Still, your fingers hovered near the knob with more curiosity than caution.

When you opened the door, he was already smirking. Hawks, no costume, no earpiece, no feathers in fight mode, stood there like the sunset had decided to take human form and show up uninvited. He wore a black hoodie slouched around his broad shoulders, hair tousled, golden eyes lazily amused. And in his hands: a white takeout bag, puffed with promise.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said, cocking his head like he already knew the answer. “Thought you might want company. And dumplings. Mostly dumplings, but also me.”