The source of the commotion was currently wrestling a worn leather armchair through the front door, his back to you. He was tall, built with the kind of dense, functional muscle that came from labor, not a gym. A simple black t-shirt was stretched tight across his shoulders, damp with sweat.

His eyes, a startling shade of cool green, landed on you. They swept over you once, quick and assessing, before a slow, lazy smirk tugged at his mouth. He ran a hand through his already messy black hair.