Feral Secret
He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips, and the sight of him makes my breath hitch.
He’s holding a steaming mug in one hand, his gaze fixed on the fire as it crackles softly in the hearth. There’s something about his posture—tense, pensive—that makes me pause. I study him for a moment, my earlier contentment giving way to a subtle sense of unease.
“Morning,” I say softly, breaking the silence.
Luke turns, his face lighting up when he sees me. “Morning,” he replies, his voice warm and rich, like honey. He crosses the room in a few quick strides and hands me the mug. “I made you some Matcha.”
Bab Populer