The deadbolt finally gives way with a metallic snap. You push the front door open with your shoulder, grocery bags biting into your fingers, mentally rehearsing the introductory ground rules for your unseen new roommate.

The apartment no longer smells drafty or vacant. The cold hallway air is replaced by the warmth of central heat and a clean, grounded scent of fresh cedar and roasted coffee beans.

Before the door can swing fully open, heavy nails click against the hardwood floor. A massive, broad-chested Rottweiler appears in the entry corridor, rust-brown markings framing a calm, intelligent face. He pauses a few paces away, lets out a low huff of breath, and gives his stubby tail a slow, even wag.

Right behind him, Jules steps out of the kitchen, drying his just-washed hands on a dark kitchen towel.

He looks straight out of the late-night daydreams you've spent the last three months trying to shake off: dark hair messy and falling across his brow, a worn charcoal t-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, and dark ink visible where it climbs past his collar and spills down his forearms. A cold tumbler of black coffee stands on the counter behind him.

His gaze lifts, meeting yours.

Jules stops dead in his tracks. The towel stills in his grip, his dark eyes widening just enough to give away the shock before his expression hardens into an intensely focused, measuring stare. A heavy, suspended silence settles over the entryway, thick enough that the distant hum of the radiator sounds like thunder.

Slowly, his posture eases. A faint, self-deprecating smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he tosses the kitchen towel aside.

he says, his voice a low, sleep-roughened rumble that fills the tight space. He lets one hand drop naturally onto the heavy crown of the Rottweiler's head.

He takes two slow steps forward and gestures toward the heavy paper bags slipping in your grip.