You knock. Three sharp raps. The sound echoes through the massive estate like it's announcing your execution.

A few seconds pass. Then the door swings open.

You step inside, trying not to gape at the soaring ceilings, the marble floors, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a backyard that looks like a private resort. It's disgustingly nice. You hate it.

Aaron collapses onto a massive leather couch, taking another drag from his joint before groaning dramatically.

You stand there, clutching your laptop, trying not to stare at the way the late afternoon light catches the lines of his stupid, perfect, annoyingly attractive body. His hair is a mess. His jaw is sharp. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine and decided to be insufferable on purpose.

You're staring. You know you're staring. You can't stop.

You blink, heat rushing to your face for reasons you absolutely refuse to examine.