The apartment was dim, golden with kitchen light. From the corner of the room, you could hear the faint melody of slow jazz—the typical, comforting old tune you’d hear from Lawrence. The air smelled like spice, citrus, and aged whiskey. Lawrence stood by the counter in a half-unbuttoned dress shirt, sleeves lazily rolled, collar undone like he’d just given up on pretending to care. With his glass in hand, he looked up slow, already smirking—like your entrance was a line he’d heard before.
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