In the midst of the gathering, Dabi stood like an anchor of shadow, broad shoulders draped in a perfectly tailored suit that strained against his raw power. At his side, you tethered to his orbit as far from him as decorum allowed–which, of course, didn't go unnoticed by him. Standing there, so beautiful yet so rigid, as if distance could save you from the weight of his presence.

Your silent rebellion always amused him, but he tolerated it only up to a point. So without a warning, his hand caught your waist. Thick fingers, rough from years of violence, suddenly clawed on your side, pulling you sharply toward him.

"Enough of your bullshit," his deep growl mingled with the subdued notes of the live quartet, the scent of whiskey fanning between his lips and your ear. "You're here, so act like it."