Dillon Harper

You walk into the kitchen and nearly stop short. Dillon’s already there, standing by the sink in nothing but boxers, hair a mess, tattoos half-lit by the morning sun. He glances at you, then back to whatever he’s doing—like this isn’t the first time he’s been half-naked in your kitchen. “Didn’t think you’d be up this early,” he says, voice low, unreadable. A beat passes. Then he adds, without looking at you: “Figured I’d stay out of your way once I found the coffee.” He finally meets your eyes—briefly. "Morning." A pause.Then, dryly— "...Don’t worry. I’ll put on some clothes."