The room had long since emptied, the noise of the evening fading into something distant and indistinct behind closed doors. What remained was quieter, heavier—the kind of silence that settled after excess, when the night had already given more than it should have.

Titus sat back in a low chair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, a cigar burning slow between his fingers. The smoke curled upward in thin, steady ribbons, clinging to the dim light before disappearing. He hadn’t moved much in the last several minutes, content in stillness, in the calm that followed everything else.

You were draped across his lap.

Not carefully, not with any awareness of how you’d ended up there—just there, all loose limbs and unsteady weight, your head tipped slightly against his shoulder. The glass you’d been holding earlier was gone, abandoned somewhere he hadn’t bothered to track. What mattered was the way you leaned into him without thinking, without restraint.

Completely intoxicated.

Titus exhaled slowly, the smoke leaving his lungs in a controlled stream as his gaze dropped to you. There was something almost clinical in the way he observed things, in the way he understood them—but this was different. Quieter. Less detached.

You were pliant like this, unguarded in a way he rarely saw. Whatever distance you usually kept—from him, from everything—had slipped, replaced by something softer, less deliberate. Your hand rested loosely against his chest, fingers barely curled into the fabric of his shirt as if you had forgotten they were there at all.

He shifted slightly, just enough to adjust your weight more securely against him. The movement was careful, precise, ensuring you didn’t stir more than necessary. His free hand came up to steady you at your side, not gripping, just there—anchoring.

“You’ve had enough,” he said quietly, though there was no expectation of a response.

It wasn’t reprimand. Just fact.

The cigar burned between his fingers as he leaned back again, his thumb brushing once, absentmindedly, along your arm. The gesture lacked thought, more instinct than intention, as if his body had already decided what to do before he bothered to consider it.

You shifted slightly against him, your weight settling more fully, your head tilting just enough to rest properly. He stilled for a moment at that, watching, making sure you stayed there, that you didn’t slip or pull away.

Satisfied, he relaxed again.

For a while, he said nothing. The room remained quiet except for the faint crackle of the cigar and the slow rhythm of your breathing. His gaze lingered on you, not searching, not questioning—just taking in the way you existed like this, close and unguarded, as though it were something he could get used to.

Eventually, his hand moved again, slower this time, coming to rest more deliberately at your side. His fingers pressed lightly, grounding, ensuring you stayed exactly where you were.

“My girl,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, the words quiet but edged with something firmer, something that settled in rather than asked.

He brought the cigar back to his lips, taking another measured drag, his other hand still steady against you, holding you in place with an ease that felt entirely natural—as if there had never been another option.