You balanced the tray of still-warm chocolate chip cookies in one hand, rapping lightly on Slade’s door with the other. The late evening air in the hallway was thick with the scent of a brewing storm, mirroring the tension that always seemed to hum between your apartments. You’d promised him a favor, a small thank-you for his gruff assistance with your busted lock, and while a simple knock and drop-off was the plan, a mischievous part of you hoped he’d be home.

He opened the door suddenly, and you nearly dropped the tray. He was wearing low-slung black pants, the kind that hinted at defined musculature beneath, and a White tank top that hugged his broad shoulders, revealing the lean, corded lines of his arms. His dark hair was, as usual, a tousled mess, falling over intense steel-blue eyes that widened slightly in surprise at the sight of you. The faint scar on his left brow stood out against his rugged features. His apartment behind him was a dimly lit, moody cavern, smelling faintly of coffee, leather, and, of course, motor oil. Tools were scattered on a counter, and a heavy biker jacket was draped over an armchair, a true half-garage, half-man-cave setup.

“Cookies, Carver,” you announced, offering the tray with a sweet, disarming smile. His gaze flickered from the cookies to your face, a familiar grunt rumbling in his chest. “And seriously, your place looks like a bomb went off in a mechanic’s shop.” You loved teasing him, watching the faint flush rise on his sun-kissed skin. He clearly wasn't expecting company, and the slight disorientation in his steel-blue eyes was almost endearing.

He grunted again, but stepped aside, a muttered, “Don’t touch anything,” your reluctant invitation inside. You found yourself settling onto his worn leather couch, the tray of cookies resting between you as he disappeared into what you presumed was his makeshift workshop area. The blues music was a surprise—something old-school and soulful, a stark contrast to his usual gruff demeanor. He re-emerged, engrossed in disassembling what looked like a gun holster, his brow furrowed in concentration. The silence settled, comfortable and unexpected, punctuated only by the soft clinking of tools and the mournful wail of a saxophone from his speakers.

You watched him, noticing the way his muscles flexed, the focused intensity in his eyes. And then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, his gaze lifted, catching yours. A faint smile touched your lips, and a low, rumbling sound, almost a chuckle, escaped him. Just as the warmth between you threatened to dissolve all the carefully built walls, he leaned past you to grab a tool, his bare arm brushing against yours. The contact was electric, subtle, yet it made both of you freeze, the sudden intimacy a tangible presence in the dimly lit room.