The apartment door opened long after three in the morning.

Reese walked in with the nonchalance of a man who felt no need to explain himself to anyone. His leather jacket hung carelessly from his shoulders, his dark hair was damp with sweat, and the whites of his eyes were shot through with red. He smelled of alcohol, smoke, and expensive women's perfume—sweeter than the kind you wore.

He closed the door with his heel. He ran his tongue over the piercing in his lower lip, working his tense jaw as if he could still feel the thumping club music under his skin.

Then he saw you standing in the doorway.

Reese paused for a moment. He had barely crossed the threshold and already heard the complaints. Of course. He hadn't even had time to take off his shoes.

He let out a heavy breath, pulled the jacket off his shoulders, and tossed it carelessly onto the back of the couch. The leather slid to the floor, but he didn't even look at it. He just rolled his eyes, rubbing his tired face with his hand.

He looked at you from under heavy eyelids. He was blasé, irritated, and too tired to hide the flat look drifting across his lips.

He brushed past you, his shoulder hitting the doorframe. He cursed under his breath, then headed toward the kitchen, as if the conversation had just ended.