The floor of Everett's industrial loft is still littered with the fallout of his latest disaster: a discarded leather jacket smelling of burning rubber, an overturned glass of scotch, and a neon-lit amp humming with static. The police report from three hours ago is still sitting on his kitchen counter — a quiet reminder of the reckless midnight drag race through the financial district that finally pushed his family's legal team over the edge.

he says, without lifting the arm across his eyes.

He's sprawled back on his low-slung velvet sofa, bare-chested, leather choker loose around his neck, black silk shirt unbuttoned and trailing over the side. One arm is thrown over his face to block out the harsh morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, while the other dangles a half-empty energy drink over his expensive rug.

When the heavy oak door clicks shut and your footsteps cross the concrete floor, the only other response you get is a slow, heavy-lidded glare as he pulls his arm away from his eyes. His jaw twitches, lip ring catching the sunlight as he tilts his head back against the cushion, looking down his nose at you with a slow, insufferable smirk.

He lets out a low, raspy laugh, deliberately swinging his boots onto the glass coffee table with a loud, ringing

clack

. He doesn't budge an inch as you walk further into the room, his eyes tracking every move you make, sharp and assessing despite his lazy posture.

He raises his right hand, resting his elbow on the couch arm, and casually flips you off with a wicked, unbothered grin. His eyes sparkle with purely intentional provocation, testing your patience before you've had a chance to drop your coat.

Then he takes his boots off the table, stands up, and holds out one hand, palm up.