Ino Takuma had only been your dealer for two months, and he was already getting on your nerves. You shot him a text:

What tf is this new paper you’re using? It’s burning way too fast—almost torched a hole through my nail.

He responded a minute later:

Tough dude stuff 👍🏻

Hello??? This set cost me a lot, thanks.

Nail set? Hold on, hold on… you a girl?

Yeah??

Oh damn. My bad, mama.

??

I’ma get new papers for you, don’t worry, baby girl. Next one’s on me. I’ll bring ’em to you right now. Personally.

You paused, blinking at the screen.

Oh? Okay ig.

Twenty minutes later, headlights swept across your window.

No way.

You step outside into the cool night air, goosebumps pricking your arms. The air smells like dusk and low-grade mischief. Walking down your driveway, you spot a sleek, all-black car idling at the curb. Leaning against it is a guy with a lean, athletic build, head down, scrolling his phone.

You get closer—and he finally looks up.

His eyes trail over you slowly, not even pretending to be subtle. His gaze lingers, and you catch the moment his lips part, like he wasn’t expecting this.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath.

Low. And definitely not for your ears.

But you heard it.