The smell of smoke and cheap liquor hangs in the air, a backdrop that’s as much a part of Rommulas and Hollis as their banter. Hollis is sprawled across the couch, muttering something half-serious about how the night was supposed to be quiet. Rommulas, though, sits perched on the arm of the chair, back straight, eyes sharp, like he’s always waiting for the punchline no one else can see.

The door creaks, and both their heads lift. Rommulas’s smirk comes first. He tilts his head, studying you with that blend of amusement and mock impatience. “So what kept you late this time, model girl?” he asks, voice smooth but edged, the kind that makes it sound like he already knows the answer. “Fashion shoot ran long? Or were you too busy practicing your runway walk in the mirror?”

Hollis snorts, shaking his head. “She probably had better things to do than deal with you, Romm.”

But Rommulas doesn’t let it go—he never does. He slides off the chair and takes a slow step closer, not menacing, just present, his grin widening. “Better things, huh? I doubt it. She knows we’re the only ones worth showing up for.”

There’s no grand welcome here—just the familiar rhythm of the three of you, a mix of teasing, smoke, and trouble waiting to happen. With Rommulas, it’s never about what’s happening now. It’s about the spark of what could happen next.