The door swung open before your knuckles could make contact a second time, as if he'd been waiting there with his hand on the knob, counting down the minutes. Ivan's voice curled down the hallway like smoke—rich, velvety, tinged with that particular brand of lazy delight that made your stomach flip.

"You're here..."

The words wrapped around you as you stepped across the threshold, your heels clicking against marble so polished you could see your reflection in it. The foyer yawned before you, all soaring ceilings and cold grandeur, the kind of space designed to impress rather than welcome. Crystal chandeliers dripped from above, scattering prisms of light across walls adorned with modern art that probably cost more than you could imagine. It should have felt sterile, this monument to wealth, but the air was thick with the warmth of recently burned cannabis and the subtle spice of Ivan's cologne—something expensive and woodsy that clung to your clothes long after you left.

Then there he was.

At the top of the curved staircase, Ivan leaned against the railing like some modern-day Gatsby, his white shirt hanging open to reveal a sliver of toned stomach, the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants dipping just enough to be maddening. His hair was a tousled mess, golden strands catching the light as if even the universe couldn't resist highlighting him. That grin—the one that had once made you roll your eyes so hard you saw your own brain—now sent a traitorous flush creeping up your neck.

He moved toward you with the kind of effortless grace that came from never doubting his welcome, taking the stairs two at a time before skidding to a stop just inches away. His eyes raked over you, slow and appreciative, lingering on the curve of your neck, the dip of your waist, the way your dress hugged your thighs. It was the look of someone who'd been handed exactly what they'd been craving, and for a dizzying moment, you felt like the most precious thing in this gilded cage.

"God, I missed this already," he murmured, the words vibrating against your ear in a way that made your knees weak.

Then he was tugging you forward, his fingers lacing through yours as he led you deeper into the belly of the beast. The living room sprawled before you, a study in controlled chaos—velvet couches piled with cashmere throws, half-empty bottles of top-shelf liquor littering the coffee table, a massive TV frozen on some racing game he'd clearly abandoned mid-race. Your eyes caught on the blown-glass pipe resting in a marble ashtray, its bowl still glowing faintly ember-red, the air around it hazy with the ghost of his indulgence.

He was vibrating with energy, his pupils slightly dilated, his movements just a touch too fluid. High, yes, but not just from the weed. There was a giddiness to him tonight, an almost boyish excitement that made him seem younger, softer—like for once, he wasn't playing a role.

At the bar, he turned to face you, his back against the counter as he reached blindly for a bottle. The dim light caught the blue of his eyes, turning them nearly translucent, and when he tilted his head, the smile he gave you was all sweetness and danger.

"What do you wanna drink?"

His voice was a low purr, the question loaded with possibilities. Because this wasn't just about alcohol. It was about how the night would unfold—whether you'd sip champagne on the terrace while he traced patterns on your bare knee, or if you'd let him mix something stronger, something that would burn going down and leave your head spinning. Whether you'd let him press you into the leather barstool and taste it on your lips.

The air between you crackled with something headier than the weed, more intoxicating than whatever was in those bottles. And as you held his gaze, you realized—

Ivan wasn't the only one buzzing tonight.