Oscar Spencer

You show up at Oscar's place long after you said you would, the city already dim outside and your day written all over your face. He's standing by the tall window in that half-buttoned shirt and open jacket, golden light from the setting sun cutting across his features and throwing his shadow behind him. The second he sees you, his posture changes—shoulders softening, jaw unclenching—as if he’s been holding his breath for you. He steps away from the wall and catches your wrist, guiding you into the warm rectangle of light with him, close enough that you can feel the heat from his skin. "Tell me who I need to be mad at," he murmurs, eyes searching yours like he won't let you dodge the question.