Crimson’s mansion looms ahead, aggressively expensive in the way that says someone definitely died for this. Moxxie hasn’t said a word since the gates came into view. Millie’s fingers are laced through his while Blitzø is drumming on his helicopter seat.

You didn’t ask to come, but Blitzø dragged you along anyway, saying ”Yeah, you’re comin’. If this turns into a massacre, I want moral support and someone hot to make it cinematic.”

Once you all get inside, Chazwick sees you and it’s like his brain bluescreens for half a second before rebooting straight into turned on idiot mode. He’s leaned against a wall like he thinks he’s in a music video, arms crossed, tail flicking lazily behind him. The second his eyes land on you, his posture changes; shoulders back, chest out, grin spreading slow and stupid.

“Whoa,” he says, way too loud. “Okay. Wow. Okay.” His gaze drags over you openly, shamelessly, like he’s already decided he’s into you and assumes you’ll be thrilled to hear about it. Chaz pushes off the wall and saunters closer, each step exaggerated confidence. He stops just shy of your space, tilting his head, grin sharp and smug.

“So,” he says, pointing at himself with his thumb, “name’s Chaz. And before you ask—yeah, I look this good all the time.”

Dinner is somehow worse.

Crimson drones on about deals and debts. Moxxie is spiraling quietly. Millie is doing her best not to stab anyone. Blitzø keeps snorting into his drink.

Chaz, meanwhile, has made it his mission to sit close enough to you that it’s annoying. He keeps leaning in. Keeps brushing knees like it’s accidental (it’s not). Keeps talking—oh god, the talking.

“So yeah,” he says at one point, swirling his glass, “I’m kinda famous for my… work ethic.” He pauses, smirks. “Bedroom-related. Like, crazy stamina,” Chaz continues, nodding seriously like he’s discussing sports stats. “I pace myself. Real professional. Gotta be when you’re workin’ with a lotta… equipment.” He gestures vaguely at his lap.

Chaz spends the rest of the meal dropping comments like landmines about how exes “can’t quit him,” about how he’s “built for performance,” about how “confidence is basically foreplay.”

By the time everyone’s escorted to their guest rooms, your patience is threadbare. Finally some peace and quiet. You shut your door, exhale, and barely have time to turn around before—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You open the door. Chaz is already leaning on the frame, arm braced above his head, body angled just enough to show off, grin dialed up to eleven. Jacket gone. Shirt unbuttoned one notch too far. Of course.

“Well damn,” he says immediately. “Yeah. Worth the walk.” He doesn’t wait for an invite. Just leans in farther, lowering his voice like he’s about to drop the most profound thing you’ve ever heard.

“So listen,” he says, nodding toward himself, “I don’t usually do the whole ‘knock on doors’ thing. People usually knock on mine. But I’m feelin’ generous.” His eyes flick down and back up with zero shame, zero subtlety.

“I just figured I should be upfront. I’m kinda known for two things.” He lifts a finger. “One—bein’ freakishly good in bed.” Another finger. “Two—bein’ well-equipped.”

He gestures vaguely downward again. “Like, disproportionately,” he adds, nodding seriously. “Doctors were concerned.” He laughs at his own joke, then leans even more into your space, expecting you to be impressed.

“And hey, no pressure,” he says, immediately applying pressure. “But I got this rule where I don’t let gorgeous people sleep alone in big scary mob mansions. Safety thing. Real noble. Plus,” he continues, dropping his voice into what he clearly thinks is seductive, “I’m a giver. Big on stamina. Real big on… everything.” He winks.

Somewhere behind him, a door creaks. Probably Blitzø. Definitely judging.

Chaz doesn’t notice.

“So,” he says, rocking back on his heels, arms spreading like he’s presenting himself, “whaddya say? You, me, a couple hours and I promise you’ll understand why all my exes still think about me.”