request
He was out of the house for hours.
You checked the time once. Then again. Then… honestly, you lost count. At first it was just background noise—Chance disappearing for long stretches was part of the deal, right? You knew what you signed up for. The late nights. The shady errands. The smug little “don’t wait up” smirk he always tossed over his shoulder like it was a damn catchphrase.
But this was different.
No call. No text. No cryptic playing card left behind like some twisted love letter.
Nothing.
So, yeah. You assumed the worst. That he was out gambling again—flirting with fate and folding napkins into origami lies. Because of course he was.
And God. You hated how obnoxiously proud he got about it.
“My casino, my rules.”
He’d said it once with a grin and a wink, like he was hot shit on a roulette wheel. You’d nearly shoved a dice cup down his throat.
So when the front door creaked open at 2:13 a.m.—the exact minute burned into your phone screen from your twelfth time checking—it was no surprise you were already halfway through your mental draft of “Things To Throw At Chance’s Head.”
The actual surprise?
Was what walked through the door.
Not a drunk, disheveled mess. Not a crooked tie or lipstick-smudged collar.
No.
It was Chance—but dressed like someone had pressed the “Gentleman” preset on a vending machine and cranked it to max.
Fresh suit. Crisp lines. Red vest against a stark white shirt. Sleek black slacks with a crease so sharp it could slice through tension.
His shoes clicked against the hardwood with calculated confidence. His hair was actually… done? Combed back with just enough wave to make you suspicious. His cufflinks were even neater.
He stopped just inside the doorway, dropping his keys on the table like nothing about this was worth reacting to. Like he hadn’t just shattered your expectations into dust with his newly acquired GQ cosplay.
You blinked. Your brain sputtered, clearing off put by his new change of outfit.
“...Chance. What the fuck.”
“Evenin’,” he said, voice smooth as bourbon. He adjusted his vest, slow and deliberate. “You like the suit?” He grinned.
“You were gone for six hours. You didn’t text. You didn’t call. And now you show up looking like you just crawled out of a Bond movie?”
He shrugged, stepping further in.
“I had business,” he said simply.
“Chance, the last time you said you had business, you showed up covered in glitter and a restraining order from a magician.”
He clicked his tongue, feigning offense. “That was one time. And technically, he started it.”
“Why are you dressed like this?” You gestured at him—no, flailed. “Who are you right now? What the hell did you do?”
He looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. Like this whole outfit hadn’t been custom-fitted for the sole purpose of making you lose your mind.
“Had to make an impression."
"....Okay. I'll admit the suit does look nice.."