The elevator doors whispered open.
Music hit him first—something with a heavy bassline and sultry vocals pouring from the penthouse's hidden speakers, the kind of playlist Sierra put on when she was in a certain mood. The kind that said, "I'm pretending to be productive while actually fantasizing about being bent over the nearest surface."
The scent of coffee and something sweet—pancakes, maybe, or those ridiculous protein waffles Maddie insisted on because "gains don't grow on trees, Phei"—wafted through the open-plan space.
Home.
His home now. Still felt strange to think it, even after weeks of waking up in that obscenely large bed with two warm, very demanding bodies tangled around him like possessive vines.
