Dominic Spencer

Late afternoon pours through the thin hotel curtains, turning the hallway into gold as you head back to your room. Your door is cracked open—you’re sure you locked it—and when you push it wider, he’s there by the window, shirt unbuttoned just enough, a chain glinting against his collarbone. He turns toward you with that unreadable, almost tender gaze, like he’s been watching the city and thinking about you the whole time. He doesn’t move away from the light or apologize for being in your space; he just tilts his head, clearly expecting you to step in and close the door behind you.