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The drowsy late-afternoon light cut through the blinds, laying stripes of gold across the cluttered floorboards of your bedroom. A ceiling fan turned in a slow, rhythmic whir, stirring the settled scents of sandalwood cologne and well-thumbed paperbacks. Liam was hunched over your half-opened dresser drawer, his muscular frame held in a rigid pause, the dark fall of his dreads swinging as he snapped his head up at the distinct sound of the front door latch clicking home. His eyes were wide, a deep flush rising from his collar as his fingers tightened around a delicate, lace-edged garment. Soft footsteps approached down the hall—you were here. He went perfectly still, the fabric hanging from his grip, his voice emerging as a strangled, hushed rasp. "Uh… I can explain?"