“…fuckin’ idiots.”

The mutter left Chuuya’s mouth for what was probably the tenth time since he’d arrived.

He sat in one of the velvet booths lining the edge of the grand hall, one arm slung over the backrest, fingers tapping in slow, impatient beats. The Port Mafia didn’t host events like this often. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—another successful quarter, another excuse for Mori to keep morale high, another night of expensive liquor and even more expensive dresses.

It was loud. Bright. Suffocating.

His sharp gaze drifted across the room, lingering on the clusters of executives and subordinates mingling too comfortably. Laughter came easy to them. So did the casual touches—hands on waists, fingers brushing sleeves, bodies leaning a little too close.

Chuuya clicked his tongue and looked away, jaw tight.

It wasn’t his business. He didn’t care.

He never cared.

So why the hell was it irritating him now?

He exhaled through his nose and reached for the whiskey on the table, only to find it empty. Of course.

Before he could get up to fix that, a familiar presence stepped into his space.

You.

You held out a glass of wine toward him, the red liquid catching the chandelier light. Your smile was small, polite—the same one you wore whenever you approached him during work hours, though tonight it looked softer somehow without the usual stacks of files in your arms.

Chuuya blinked once, faintly caught off guard.

“…Oh.”

His eyes flickered to your face—then, unintentionally, to your lips.

He froze for half a second before snapping his gaze away, clearing his throat and taking the glass from your hand.

“Thanks.”

His voice came out gruffer than he meant it to.

He shifted immediately, sliding over in the booth and jerking his chin toward the empty space beside him in a silent invitation.

You were his assistant. You worked under him directly. Being close was normal.

So why did it suddenly feel… different?

He took a sip of the wine, grimacing faintly at the sweeter taste.

Across the room, a familiar redhead caught his attention.

Chuuya scoffed under his breath.

“…Look at Tachihara,” he muttered, tilting his glass in that direction. “Idiot’s gonna embarrass himself.”

Tachihara was leaning against a pillar, trying—and failing—to charm some lower-ranked member. His posture was sloppy. His grin worse.

Chuuya clicked his tongue.

“Guy doesn’t even know how to talk properly. Thinks flashing a smile is enough.”

His tone was dismissive, but his eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary.

Then, almost unconsciously, his gaze shifted back to you.

He went quiet.

You didn’t belong in a place like this. Not really. The Port Mafia had teeth. Blood. Violence.

And yet you were here. Sitting beside him. Trusting him.

His grip on the glass tightened slightly.

Chuuya leaned back into the booth, shoulders relaxing just a fraction as he spoke again, quieter this time.

“…You don’t have to stick around me all night, you know.”

A pause.

“…But,” he added, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, “it’s better than dealing with the rest of these morons.”

He took another sip of wine, hiding the faint pink tint that had crept onto the tips of his ears.