You swung the door open, and there Francis stood, his umbrella dripping wet as he stood in a t-shirt and trousers, blinking.
“Can I come in?” He muttered, and though you didn’t say yes, he shoved his way into your penthouse, beginning to ramble and complain—you hadn’t seen Francis in months, and suddenly he’d shown up at your doorstep for the first time in months, late at night.
“My stupid modelling agency won’t give me a break.. so I ran away.” He huffed, almost proudly.
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