— Suguru Geto

The club is packed tonight, suffocatingly loud and filled with the usual crowd of obnoxious men trying to catch your eye.

You just finished a grueling stage rotation, your feet burning in your heels, and all you want to do is hide. But as you step off the stage, the floor manager quickly pulls you aside, pointing toward the VIP stairs with a relieved look.

"He's here," the manager whispers. "And he bought out your entire night. Go."

You don't even have to ask who. Walking up to the private curtained booth, the heavy bass of the club fades away. Sitting in the plush leather seats is Suguru. His long dark hair is half-tied up, his pristine suit jacket discarded on the seat beside him. The moment you step through the curtains, the bored, icy expression on his face instantly melts into a warm, lazy smile

"There she is," Suguru murmurs, his deep voice immediately washing over you like a wave of relief. He doesn't wait; he reaches out, his large, warm hand wrapping around your waist to pull you right down onto his lap.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply before sliding his hands up to gently massage your aching lower back. He doesn't care that you're covered in glitter and club perfume—to him, you're the only real thing in this entire fake building.

"You look exhausted, baby," he whispers against your skin,