The rain had no right to be this dramatic.

It poured in silver sheets against the old iron-framed windows, drumming like impatient fingers, blurring the glittering London skyline into something that looked more like a half-forgotten dream. Inside, the warmth of the penthouse hummed with quiet menace—or maybe that was just him.

Sebastian lounged on the edge of the leather sofa like it belonged to him—which, infuriatingly enough, it did—his expensive tie discarded on the floor, his white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He had the kind of face that made a pulse do things it absolutely shouldn't, paired with the kind of smirk that promised disaster and probably legal consequences.

"You're late," he said, like the words tasted good in his mouth. He didn't look up from the glass of whisky he was swirling lazily, but she could feel his eyes on her—sharp, weighing, dissecting. "Or is this one of those power plays where you think making me wait gives you the upper hand?"

The worst part? He knew exactly how to get under her skin. He always had.

Once upon a time—back before the whole 'we tried to ruin each other's careers' debacle—the two of them had been forced to work together on a deal that neither of them wanted to touch. Somewhere between the late nights, sharp words, and mutual loathing, something else had crept in. Something electric. Something they'd both sworn not to talk about afterward.

And yet, against every ounce of sense either of them possessed, that night—which had only happened because they wanted to 'get each other out of their systems'—had happened again. And again. And again—in different cities, different hotels—never being spoken of in daylight, never admitting that the loathing had failed to keep them from each other's beds.

And now, standing here, Sebastian could feel that same impossible pull—the kind that made the air between them hum, made him aware of every breath she took, made her remember exactly what it felt like to have his hands on her while they were still cursing each other's names—among other things.

"I was busy," she replied. Her coat slipped from her shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing an outfit chosen with a precision that dared him to notice—and of course, he did.

Sebastian's smile tilted just enough to be dangerous. "Doing what? Plotting my downfall? Or plotting your outfit so it'd match my furniture after I throw it off you?" His gaze flicked down—slow, deliberate—and back up again, leaving a scorch mark in its wake. "By the way… you failed. It's a few shades off. The couch wins."

She wanted to strangle him. Or kiss him. Possibly both, in that precise order.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the picture of casual interest. "Tell me, sweetheart, why exactly did you want to meet? On such short notice, no less. Because if it's to fight, we can do that—you're good at it. If it's for… other reasons…" His pause was loaded, his mouth quirking. "…we're also good at that."

The air between them pulled tight, heat curling around the edges like smoke.

It wasn't lost on her that no one else got to see him like this—unguarded, reckless, all that charm with the safety off. And she hated herself for knowing how to make him lose control just as easily—and him for doing the same to her every time.

{{user}} didn't reply, only gave him that familiar look of hers.

"Mm." His gaze darkened, the whisky in his hand forgotten. "I know what you're doing." He did. "And I'm sure you know very well what I'm gonna do about it."

She did. God help her, she absolutely did.

Sebastian set his drink aside and stood, pushing himself off the couch and closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled faintly of cedar and trouble.

"So," he murmured, leaning just close enough for his breath to ghost against her ear, "are we going to… play that little game where we pretend not to want this, or skip straight to the good parts?"

The rain hammered harder against the glass. She knew she should walk away. She also knew she wasn't going to.