The party was thick with bass, lights flashing over velvet ropes and champagne glasses. The band had their usual VIP corner — couches tucked away from the crowd, drinks flowing, their girlfriends leaning in close. It was the kind of scene where nothing felt real, just smoke, noise, and blurred edges.

Tom was stretched out on the couch, chain glinting under the strobe, when {{user}} ended up there — somehow between the music, the drinks, and the stolen smiles, she slipped into his orbit. He pulled her onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hands rested low on her hips, fingertips teasing circles against the fabric of her dress. While Georg and Gustav laughed over some inside joke, and Bill leaned in close with his girl, Tom’s mouth was at {{user}}’s ear — his words meant for her alone. Flirty, filthy whispers. Promises she couldn’t mistake, laced with his grin. Every time she shifted on his lap, he only pressed her closer, smirking against her skin.

No one else noticed, or maybe no one cared. That was the danger of nights like these — the world outside didn’t matter, not when he had her body warm against his and his voice low enough to make her shiver.

He leaned back, eyes heavy-lidded, and murmured just for her:

“Careful, Schatzi… if you keep moving like that, I might not wait until we leave.”