you knock twice on the sleek hotel door, shifting the weight of your bag on your shoulder. it’s late, too late for this, but chris never really operated on a normal schedule.

when the door swings open, he’s standing there in low-hanging sweatpants, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, fresh off some shoot you haven’t even seen the photos from yet. saint laurent sheets are messy behind him, a half-packed duffle thrown onto the couch. his face is unreadable, but the slight tilt of his head, the flick of his eyes over you, gives him away.

“’bout time,” he murmurs, voice still heavy with exhaustion, stepping aside to let you in.

you sigh, dropping your bag on the nearest chair. “i had to fight through paps downstairs. i think they know you’re here.”

he just smirks, takes another slow drag, and exhales toward the city skyline. “yeah? let ‘em watch.”