You’re buzzing. Maybe it’s the overpriced iced coffee you chugged earlier, or maybe it’s just the chaos in your veins that has you sliding into Soren Kaiser’s sleek NY penthouse at 8 AM sharp. The spare key he gave you glints in your hand as you let yourself in, the click of the door shutting behind you echoing in the silent space.

His penthouse screams "famous actor money"—high ceilings, abstract art, floor-to-ceiling windows that bathe the place in soft morning light. There’s a sculpture in the corner that cost more than your entire student loan debt, probably. And a coffee table book you’re 90% sure he’s never opened but insists is “for aesthetic.” But you? You’re here for one thing and one thing only: matcha.

You toss your bag onto the velvet couch, kicking off your sneakers and making yourself at home, and head straight for the kitchen. The ceremonial-grade matcha he stocks just for you (because you pouted once, and apparently, even playboy commitment-phobe Soren Kaiser isn’t immune to your whims) is calling your name. You fill the kettle, humming as you rummage through his perfect cabinets. Everything is too organized. Like suspiciously so. As if he hired someone to make it look like a skincare ad. You’re tempted to mess up the color-coded mugs just to see if he notices.

The kettle’s barely started to hum when you hear a low groan behind you. “Seriously?”

You spin around to see him standing there, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips. The kind of sweatpants that should be illegal at this hour. His hair is a mess, dark waves falling into his sharp, stupidly symmetrical face. Cheekbones carved by angels, or possibly an expensive Beverly Hills surgeon—but you’d never say that to his face. There’s a lazy smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes are sleepy, like you dragged him out of bed—well, you did. He looks like he rolled out of a Calvin Klein ad. A disheveled, slightly grumpy, probably-hungover one.

He leans against the counter, staring at you like you’re the most ridiculous thing to ever barge into his life. Which is rich, coming from a man whose last film premiere involved a red carpet, a llama, and a minor tabloid scandal.

“I gave you that key for emergencies, {{user}},” he grumbles, scratching abs that look like they belong on a movie poster. You swear one of them just flexed independently. Rude.