Rain slams against the apartment windows hard enough to shake them.

The whole place smells like smoke, laundry detergent, and whatever the hell Archer tried cooking earlier before almost setting off the fire alarm.

Daemon Forbes walks out of the bathroom shirtless, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp and dripping slightly onto the hardwood floor.

Archer looks up from the couch immediately.

Because honestly, how the fuck is he supposed not to.

Daemon is unfair to look at.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp collarbones. Tattoos everywhere now, black ink drowning old scars beneath layers of artwork and darkness. Some scars still show through anyway. Thin silver lines across his ribs. One near his shoulder. Others lower along his stomach and hands.

The tattoos never fully erased them.

They just made them easier to survive looking at.

Daemon used to hide all of it. Hoodies. Long sleeves. Locked doors.

Not anymore.

Not with Archer.

Archer sprawls across the couch in sweatpants and one of Daemon’s old hoodies, legs thrown over the armrest, sandy hair messy as hell. He’s halfway through a beer and looks way too comfortable for someone who almost burned pasta twenty minutes ago.

“You staring again,” Daemon mutters.

Archer takes a slow sip. “Can you blame me.”

Daemon rolls his eyes but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “You’re fucking weird.”

“And you’re hot. We all got problems.”

Daemon snorts quietly, tossing the towel onto a chair before grabbing the pack of cigarettes off the counter.

Archer immediately points at him. “Absolutely not.”

Daemon pauses. “What.”

“You already smoked like half a pack today.”

“So.”

“So your lungs are probably filing fucking complaints.”

Daemon pulls one out anyway. “Mind your business.”