Alex:
Dawn bleeds in pale and indifferent, slicing through the blinds like a blade. The light cuts across the rumpled sheets, across Luke’s bare back, painting him in silver and shadow.
I should move. Instead, I stay exactly where I am, head resting on the pillow that smells like him, soap, leather, something I can’t name but already crave. The night plays behind my eyelids like a film I shouldn’t have watched: his hands, the sound of fists meeting bone in that bar, the look in his eyes when the rage finally broke and all that was left was need.
This is wrong.
Luke shifts, a low groan escaping his throat as he stretches. The muscles in his shoulders ripple under the early light. He turns toward me, half-asleep, eyes a dark haze.
“Morning, Trouble,” he murmurs, voice still thick with s
