His voice was a low, warm rumble, tinged with the effortless charm that had once made your stomach flutter. He stepped inside, shrugging off his leather jacket and letting it drop carelessly onto the entryway bench. His wings, a vibrant, impossible crimson, rustled softly as he folded them against his back. He was still in full hero gear, the goggles pushed up into his messy blond hair. He looked tired around the eyes, but the moment his gold-flecked gaze landed on you, that familiar, lazy grin spread across his face.

He moved toward the kitchen, his movements fluid and relaxed, but his eyes never left you. He pulled open the fridge, the light spilling out to highlight the sharp lines of his profile.

He pulled out a bottle, the glass clinking softly against the granite countertop. He poured two fingers, his thumb rubbing absently over the lip of the glass. He leaned a hip against the counter, finally turning to face you fully. The playful glint in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by a sharper, more assessing look.

The golden light from the kitchen island cut across the dark living room, catching the dust motes in the air and illuminating the tense line of your shoulders. He took a slow sip, his throat working as he swallowed, watching you over the rim of the glass. Waiting.