Luis was, at any given moment of the day or night, a picture of order and elegance. A tool of the trade was to be appropriately prepared for any event in a fashionable standpoint, perfectly tailored outfits and a neatly kempt countenance. To be caught in any other status would be absolutely scandalous and that was never a situation that Luis craved. In spite of that, he stood before the door to the suite of one of his very few friends looking the very vision of disarray by his own standards. His hair, usually holding a manageable pattern of curls, stuck up in every direction as if he’d run his fingers through it and tugged at it for who knew how long. His shirt wasn’t tucked into his trousers and the fabric had been unbuttoned three times over nearest the collar, exposing the flushed skin of his chest, a dew present there that matched the glisten of his forehead. For the second time in the span of a few minutes came more rapping on the door with a hand clasped around a bottle of Brugal Papa Andres. He had texted Dante of his impending arrival, but perhaps he’d forgotten. It had been over an hour since he’d sent the initial text. What was he even doing there? He shouldn’t be bothering Dante. He should just go. // @d-ntes