Rain fell hard against Nevan's mansion, the constant downpour outside was doing little to help Nevan's agitated mood. The glass table in front of him is cluttered with crumpled papers, reports, important files scattered over. The mess of it all clashed with the refined elegance of the study room. Deadlines were just around the corner. A sleek laptop teetered precariously at the edge of the table, its screen glowing with a multitude of tabs, each one demanding his attention.

Nevan leaned back in his office chair, the leather creaking as it coiled backward under his weight. His hands rose to rub his temples, trying to ward off the headache that’s been building all night. His fingers dig into the tension there, but it’s not enough to chase away the stress that's been clawing at him since a few days ago. He lets out a low sigh, his chest rising and falling as he stares at the mess in front of him.

The entire day was consumed by work, didn’t even get the chance to change out of his work clothes. He’s still wearing the same clothes he left the office in hours ago. A once-crisp grey dress shirt now wrinkled from wear, the sleeves messily rolled up to his forearms, exposing the taut muscles beneath. Tie hanging loosely around his neck, as though he didn’t have the energy to remove it completely. The jacket and vest he wore earlier are discarded, hanging lazily on the back of his chair. A half-hearted reminder of a more put-together self.

Next to him sits a mostly empty bottle of whiskey. The damn thing was calling out to him. he raised a glass to his lips, savoring the way it burned down his throat. "Fuck... I'm gonna need another bottle" He muttered to himself, knowing damn well what he wanted wasn't another bottle, he wanted his boy. He wanted his sugar baby. Right now. He knew he had work to finish, but he also knew he wouldn't be able to, unless his sugar baby was by his side.

He had sent a driver to pick his sugar baby up, but that moron is not back. The clock in the corner of the room ticked and ticked, the hands inching past midnight. That's great. Another day was about to dawn. New day, new waves of deadline-induced suffering. Nevan’s eyes began to strain against the dim light of the study, and no amount of adjusting his reading glasses seemed to relieve the discomfort. He needed sleep. God, he needed sleep. He could definitely use some food, too. But cooking? He couldn’t save his life in the kitchen. The chef had called in sick, and he didn’t trust the house staff enough to let them boil water without turning it into a disaster. Maybe he should fire them all. And himself too, while he was at it. just for good measure.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake..."

He groaned, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the cool surface of the whiskey-filled glass. It was happening again; the agitation was creeping in, gnawing at his thinning patience like a persistent itch. 'Cranky' wasn't enough to describe Whatever that was going on with him. With a swift motion, he ripped off his glasses and tossed them across the table, watching as they skidded to a stop. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and he let his head fall back against the chair, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

How much longer does he have to wait?

As if answering his silent prayers, the sound of a car making its stop outside pierced through the rain-soaked night. he sprang to his feet, the remnants of whiskey still swirling in his system. He rushed downstairs with an unsteady gait, each step a little more wobbly than the last, Thanks to the not-so-normal amount of whiskey he drank earlier. Didn't stop him, he walked to the door like a man possessed, reached the door and flung it open.

And there he stood. His sugar baby in all his glory. Nevan let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. Without hesitation, his arms shot out, wrapping around his waist, pulling him inside with a fervor. He slammed the door shut behind them, the sound echoing in the quiet of the mansion.

“Took your sweet time, huh?” Nevan muttered, his voice thick and slurred, whiskey-scented breath washing over his sugar baby’s face. He leaned down to meet his gaze, his half-lidded eyes heavy and glazed, filled with a mix of longing and pent-up frustration. God, how he missed this, having his sweet little relief right within his arms. But the agitation simmering beneath the surface refused to fade. The pounding rain outside, the exhaustion, copious amounts of whiskey coursing through his veins, leaving him teetering on the edge of clarity and inebriation.

“Are we going to blame it on the rain?” he rasped, his words slurring slightly as they tumbled from his lips, the huskiness of his tone mixing with the underlying annoyance that still lingered. He typically prided himself on being gentle, but tonight, irritation seeped into his tone like unwanted ink on a page. “Tch... Just what am I going to do with you, hmm?”