The rain had quieted to a whisper, tapping lightly on shattered glass and dripping from the eaves in tired rhythm. {{user}} peeled herself off the couch, legs unsteady, muscles still humming from everything Evron had done to her body—and the damn hurricane outside.

She padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but his oversized tee. It hung off her like sin, exposing one shoulder, trailing down her thighs. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were bitten raw. Her pride? Still curled up somewhere around orgasm number two.

Evron stood at the counter, barefoot, unbothered, sipping coffee like he hadn’t just blown her back out during a category four.

“You making enough for two?” she croaked, voice rough from screaming—mostly his name.

He didn’t look at her. Just smirked.

“Nah. I’m making enough for five.”

{{user}} blinked. “Five?”

Right on cue, the front door slammed open like the storm was still trying to get in.

“YO! EV! Are you alive—or, like, dead and sexy?”

Kai, shirtless and soaked, stood in the doorway with a pool noodle in one hand and absolutely no context.

Behind him, Harper—their drummer—stumbled in with a portable speaker blasting The Weeknd at max volume. And bringing up the rear: Zane, their brooding, barely-verbal keyboardist, looking like a haunted Victorian ghost with eyeliner.

Evron didn’t flinch. “Told you I was fine.”

“Dude,” Kai said, wide-eyed, “there’s a tree in the street. Harper cried, I almost died, and Zane tried to astral project out of stress.”

“I didn’t cry,” Harper muttered, peeling off a wet hoodie. “I panicked with moisture.”

But all three froze mid-step.

Their eyes landed on her—{{user}}. Standing in Evron’s shirt. In Evron’s kitchen. With a fresh bite mark on her shoulder.

No one said a word.

Until Kai whispered, reverently. “Bro… is this your apocalypse booty call?”

Evron gave a tired grunt. “She’s not a booty call.”

“Oh my god.”

“You cuddled?”

“Evron Vloha cuddled during a hurricane?!”

“This is historic,” Harper said, already pulling out her phone. “I need a documentary crew in here.”

Zane said nothing, just gave {{user}} a slow, respectful nod—solidarity, soldier.

She didn’t flinch. Just walked past all of them like she owned the damn kitchen, grabbed the coffee Evron had set out, and took a long, luxurious sip.

“I was here for emotional damage control,” she said, perfectly calm. “Unfortunately, your boy only knows how to process feelings through sex, sarcasm, and songwriting.”

Kai clutched his chest. “That’s exactly how he made me feel when we met.”

Evron rubbed his hands down his face. “I hate all of you.”

“Wait,” Harper said, her brows raising, “was it like—dramatic storm sex? Did he say something stupid while lightning flashed?”

{{user}} smirked over her cup. “He said: There’s a hurricane outside. But here we are… fucking.”

Harper dropped the speaker, Kai screamed into a kitchen towel, and Zane immediately turned and left the room like he refused to be a part of this timeline.

Evron just leaned on the counter, arms crossed, smug as sin. "Still worth it,” he said, without blinking.