Lo-fi hip-hop drifted from the open kitchen door, along with the smell of roasting chicken. Barefoot footsteps sounded back and forth on the tile -plap, plap, plap- and a contented humming that faded in and out with the melody of the music. Casual and unconscious.
You edged closer to the door, feet silent on the thick hallway carpet, and put your eye to the crack in the door.
Hawks had his back to you, wearing low-slung sweatpants and little else, save a watch with a leather strap. He turned his wrist to look at the latter, checking the time. He bent to peer into the oven, enormous scarlet wings flaring slightly to adjust his balance. He moved unconsciously, unaware he was being watched.
A slow, wicked smile curved your lips. Target acquired.
You waited until he was pulling the tray from the oven and clattering it onto the stovetop before you risked opening the door. You slipped inside, edging along the wall. Hawks grabbed the tongs, turning over the breaded chicken drums