Chuuya is woozy.

The dark wood of the bar is cool against his flush cheeks when he lays his face down on the mahogany. His head is throbbing, and the room wavers at the edge of his vision— the only thing that really stands out to his blurry line of sight is the bartender pouring him another glass.

He props himself upright and throws his drink back, barely tasting it at this point. Anything to distract him from his thoughts of you.

Chuuya knows he shouldn't want you. You're different ranks in the Port Mafia, so a relationship would be difficult to upkeep with your workloads— and damn, what if he bares his soul only for you to laugh—? It makes his head swim. He motions for another drink.