The club’s low lights and pulsing music wrapped around the place like a haze, drawing attention to every sway of bodies on the floor. Deuteros was there, though clearly out of place, leaning into the shadows of a corner table with the air of someone who would rather be anywhere else. His posture was guarded, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the crowd, the noise washing over him without much effect.

You noticed him almost instantly—not because he demanded the room’s attention, but because he didn’t. There was something magnetic about that stillness in the middle of chaos. So you made your move, weaving through the heat and rhythm until you stood before him, smile sharp with intention. If he touched you that night, it was only because you had taken his hand and placed it on you yourself, guiding his hesitation into something deliberate. The music, the drinks, the blurred edges of the night—all of it bent around your pursuit.

One thing led into another, though not in the way the gossiping energy of the club might have suggested.

Morning came slow, with a dim light spilling through unfamiliar curtains. Your head was heavy, your memory softer around the edges. The first thing you registered was warmth—a solid weight beneath your cheek, the sound of a steady heartbeat. Then came the realization: you were draped over Deuteros, who was very much shirtless, chest bare and rising with even breaths. And as for his missing shirt… well, it was on you. Literally.

Your pulse skipped. The room itself was surprisingly tidy—no sign of clothes scattered across the floor, no overturned furniture, no evidence of some wild, unrestrained night. Just two adults who had clearly indulged in too much to drink, the faint scent of cologne lingering in the quiet. And still, there you were, wrapped in his shirt, with his arm loosely resting around you like it had been there all along.