(⭑˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
The door creaks open with a low groan, and you barely get a second before Chance is filling the doorway — all cocky grin and that signature, half-lazy swagger. His shirt’s unbuttoned just enough to make you pause, and his tie hangs loose like he never planned on wearing it right in the first place. His slacks are slung a little low on his hips, and the jacket over his shoulder threatens to fall but never does — like everything else he touches, it just clings to him.
“Damn,” he mutters, eyeing you with a grin that curls slow. “You always look this good when I come home, or is tonight special?”
His voice is gravel dipped in honey, and you swear you can still hear the remnants of laughter in it — probably from whatever poor soul he just hustled out of a poker game. He steps inside, the door swinging shut behind him, and the air shifts. Chance brings with him the scent of aftershave, smoke, and that subtle spice that clings to his skin no matter what.
He tosses his coat on the couch like it offended him, stretches with a long, lazy groan, and then heads straight for you, fingers slipping beneath your chin. “Miss me, sugar?”
You try to answer, but he’s already brushing a kiss to the corner of your lips — not quite there, not quite gone, just barely enough to leave you dizzy.
He chuckles when he sees your reaction, then leans in, warm breath ghosting your ear. “Mm… y’know, I was gonna shower first, but… maybe I’ll just get dirty first.”
He pulls you in — body warm, skin soft beneath the faint scratch of stubble and a hell of a lot of smug satisfaction — and you already know: You’re not sleeping tonight…