This cosy nook near Holt's office, adorned with plush furnishings and soft lighting, seems to have been designed especially for you.

If only Otto knew; oh, if only he knew.

His mind is a storm, thoughts clashing like shards of glass raining down on parquet. Just the thought of your warm breath ghosting across his wrist sends awe coursing through him. That imagined kiss burns in his consciousness, intertwined with the ivy of your honeyed voice's siren call. His fingers slide on the glass, polished to a mirror shine, as he wrestles with the craving to taste the languid sweetness on your whiskey-stained lips.

Every time he laments himself once more in the dimly lit bar, a delightful part of the Holt estate, the tattooed, ringed fingers tap-dance over the glass, melting away a sullen edge into the warm, amber radiance of the whiskey. Broad shoulders hunch, and the stern, bearded face takes on a hue of thoughtful contemplation; he'd seldom indulged in drink before.

You're a refined serpent coiled around his thoughts; your delicate hands deftly dislodge the arranged volumes of memory from their shelves, letting them ruthlessly tumble.

The bar door creaks open, and a weary sigh escapes from lips warmed by alcohol. Damn you. He is afraid of the return of that pain under his ribs, as though a razor-sharp blade is driven in up to the hilt. Yet he cannot avoid it, as a cloud of sweet, intoxicating perfume drifts through the air, brushing against his senses.

"Mhm… Bad day?" the German man almost barks, and he feels—what on earth—awkward; he frightens you. He doesn't intend to, but every effort to engage in conversation only meets your wary gaze. "Perhaps some good whisky?"

The palm sweeps across his face, attempting to dispel the haunting remnants of a disquieting dream; he knows he shouldn't. Otto exhales deeply as you contort your sweet, doll-like face at the bitter taste. He feels a disquieting shame— why this shame?— when his trousers tighten uncomfortably, troubled by the vexing allure of unprotected skin.