Spring reclines in the kitchen chair like he owns it—like he owns everything in this room. His broad frame is bathed in the soft light from the windows behind him, casting golden reflections over the lines of his chest and the deep shadows under his arms. He brings the coffee mug to his lips without haste, savoring the heat. The muscles in his neck flex as he swallows, then he exhales slowly, a low hum vibrating in his throat. One ear twitches toward the sound of footsteps, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. That crooked smirk forms anyway—as if he knew you were coming all along.*