The dressing room at Le Rêve Mansion always smelled like cologne, sweat, coconut oil, and too much hairspray. Music buzzed low from someone's Bluetooth speaker—probably Dante's playlist again, some slow R&B that made the whole place feel like a strip club-meets-therapy office to Caleb.

Maddox stood at the full-length mirror like it was his lover, shirt unbuttoned to his navel, six-pack gleaming like it had its lighting rig. He tilted his chin, adjusted a single curl, and misted himself with cologne for the third time—gold bottle, obviously. The spray arced through the air like a final blessing, and he caught Caleb's gaze in the mirror with a wink that said You're welcome.

Dante had claimed the end of the bench like a lounging panther. His arms stretched back behind his head, making every carved line of his abs ripple beneath the low lights. He moved like slow jazz—unbothered, indulgent, and stupidly gorgeous.

Naoya sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, a towel around his neck and his earbuds tucked in. He scrolled through a playlist on his phone with surgical precision, dark hair damp and pushed back, jaw tight in thought. He pretended not to hear anything, but Caleb saw the twitch of a smirk when Maddox said something outrageous, the quick glance when Dante shifted positions.

Caleb stood and stretched with a lazy roll of his shoulders, his movements unhurried like he had all night to get ready. His shirt hung open, framing his chest and abs like it was designed just to tempt, the hem brushing low over the band of his bottoms. Sun-golden skin caught the soft light, the deep lines of his v-cut shadowed and shameless. He ran a hand down the center of his torso—slow, absentminded, like he didn't even realize he was doing it. The scent of bergamot and white musk unfurled in the warm air as he reached for his cologne and gave himself a single spritz.

He didn't preen, he didn't pose, he just was, and that was somehow worse. Or better. Depending on who you ask. He had a brush in one hand, lazily combing through his damp curls like he had all the time in the world. He didn't. He was on in fifteen. But his vibe stayed the same: smooth, unbothered, and just a little sleepy.

"You gonna put a shirt on or are you doing the sleepy lumberjack set tonight?" Maddox quipped from across the room, flexing in the mirror as he adjusted the cuffs of his golden blazer. Of course he was wearing gold. Maddox always dressed like a statue that had just stepped off a trophy shelf. It was fucking hilarious. Caleb felt a slight smirk appear on his face, but Caleb didn't look up. "Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Midas. Makes your pores flare."

Naoya snorted from his perch in the corner. "Midas would never admit it, but he started doing core workouts after Caleb's birthday set last month."

"That's slander," Maddox shot back. "I started those because Dante said I had a soft underbelly."

Dante didn't even look up from taping his fingers. "I said you emotionally have a soft underbelly."

"Which I took as motivation," Maddox said. "Growth mindset."

Caleb hummed under his breath, smirking. "We should all be so brave."

"You guys argue like a married throuple," Dante murmured. "Makes me feel like the kid in the divorce."

Caleb chuckled and leaned back, gaze flicking toward Naoya. "Yo, Oni. What time's your set?"

Naoya lifted a shoulder. "Right after yours."

"Stick close," Caleb said, tossing a water bottle across the room. Naoya caught it with one hand. "If I black out again, you're my designated ass-wrangler."

"I'm honored," Naoya replied dryly. "Truly."

Lazy laughter rolled through the room, the kind Caleb knew by heart from too many nights sweating under stage lights. He caught Maddox's eye in the mirror and smirked, cocky and unbothered. "Let's go make someone's night," he said, lazy grin sliding into place.

---

The massage studio smelled like lavender and eucalyptus, soft and clean in a way that made Caleb feel like he'd stepped out of his own skin. He wasn't used to quiet. His life was neon and basslines, sweat and perfume, women's laughter tangled with the low hum of "SexyBack" bleeding out of speakers. Here, though, the air was slow and heavy, a different kind of intimacy that made the muscles in his shoulders twitch as if they already knew what was coming.

Caleb leaned against the reception desk with that easy, bone-deep laziness of a man who had spent the entire day avoiding responsibility. His hoodie hung loose over joggers, curls shoved under a cap, but he still carried the kind of presence you couldn't switch off. Even tired, even casual, he looked like sin dressed down. The kind of casual armor he wore when he didn't feel like being "Casanova." Today, he was just Caleb Ellison, a man too sore from last night's routine to pretend he wasn't twenty-five and burning both ends of the candle.

They called his name, and he followed the therapist down a dim hallway lit in soft gold. They allowed him to change, to strip down into just slippers and a plush white robe, before they led him to the room he was going to be in.

The room they opened felt intimate in a way that surprised him—low lighting, muted music, the faint whisper of an essential oil diffuser. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the ache from last night's set, already halfway to making some dumb joke about being "manhandled."

The door opened, and he saw her.

For a second, his brain stalled. He blinked once, slow, the way he did when he thought he might be dreaming—or worse, when he thought he might have nodded off mid-step again. But no. It was her. The same woman who had been pressed under his hands less than twenty-four hours ago, lips parted in the kind of way that lived rent-free in his skull.

Caleb's smirk tugged lazily at the corner of his mouth, the kind of smile that wasn't just confidence—it was possession dressed in charm. He let his gaze linger on her, long enough to make it obvious, before dropping onto the massage table like it was a stage built just for him, one arm behind his head, eyes half-lidded in that lazy way that always got him underestimated.

"Well, damn," he drawled, voice low and teasing, blue eyes fixed on her like he'd just discovered his favorite secret. "Guess I really did make an impression last night."

He ran a hand over his abs, slow, casual, like scratching an itch—but he knew exactly what he was doing. His grin widened as he tilted his head, lazy curls falling into his eyes.

"If you wanted to see me naked," he murmured, the words warm and cocky, "—you could've just asked."