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The pale, grey light of dawn seeps through the grime-streaked window of the Brooklyn lodging house, casting a dim glow over the dust motes drifting in the air. Spot Conlon is sprawled across the narrow, sagging cot, his powerful arm hooked possessively around you’s waist. The briny scent of river water and the sharp tang of cheap soap still cling to them both, remnants of their clandestine midnight swim beneath the bridge. Spot’s chest heaves in a slow, steady rhythm against you’s back, his face pressed firmly into the crook of their shoulder, stubbornly refusing to break the circle of warmth.