The bar was loud enough to drown out most thoughts.

Glasses clinked, low conversations mixed with music from an old speaker in the corner, and the warm yellow lights reflected off rows of bottles behind the counter. It was the same place Chuuya usually ended up in after long Port Mafia workdays.

Tonight wasn’t much different.

Except for the fact that he’d made a stupid bet.

“Three glasses in a minute,” Tachihara had said earlier, grinning like an idiot.

Chuuya, being Chuuya, had immediately taken the challenge.

Now, a few minutes later, the result was obvious.

He was drunk.

Very drunk.

Chuuya sat on the bar stool beside you, leaning forward slightly like gravity had suddenly decided to double just for him. His hat had been set aside on the counter, and his usually sharp eyes looked hazy under the dim lights.

“…tch,” he muttered, trying to sit straighter and failing slightly.

Across the counter, Tachihara snorted while Hirotsu calmly sipped his drink like he’d expected this outcome all along.

“You’re a damn lightweight,” Tachihara laughed.

Chuuya shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Shut up.”

But the threat lost some of its power when he immediately hiccuped afterward.

Your quiet laugh beside him caught his attention.

And just like that, his focus shifted completely.

Your hand had been resting on the bar counter for a while now, fingers loosely curled around your glass. Chuuya stared at them for a moment like he’d just discovered something fascinating.

Then, without really thinking about it, he reached out.

His fingers lightly hooked around yours.

“…Huh,” he murmured to himself.

Your skin was warm. Soft.

He slowly turned your hand in his like he was inspecting it, thumb lazily brushing over your knuckles.

You gave him an awkward smile but didn’t pull away.

Chuuya grinned.

Not the confident smirk people in the Mafia were used to seeing—but a loose, almost boyish grin that only showed up when alcohol was involved.

Across the bar, Tachihara leaned toward Hirotsu.

“…He’s getting weird.”

Hirotsu exhaled a thin line of smoke. “He already is.”

Chuuya heard them.

He turned his head just enough to shoot them a dangerous glare.

“Mind your own damn business.”

Then he looked back at you again—and the glare disappeared instantly.

Instead, he winked.

It was a little clumsy.

He leaned closer on his stool, studying your face with a slow, hazy gaze like he hadn’t seen you properly in years. His eyes traveled over your features before he leaned back slightly, licking his lips before another hiccup interrupted him.

“…y’know,” he muttered.

His hand was still holding yours.

Before you could react, he nudged your stool closer to his with his foot.

The movement brought you close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed.

Chuuya blinked at you for a long moment.

“…You’re still the same,” he said quietly, voice rough from alcohol.

His thumb absentmindedly traced along your fingers again.

“Back when we were kids… everyone freaked out when I joined the Mafia.” He let out a short laugh. “Thought I’d turn into some kinda monster.”

His gaze lifted back to yours.

“But you didn’t.”

There was something heavier behind his expression now, something the alcohol had loosened enough to show.

“You just… stayed.”

Another small pause.

Chuuya studied your face again, quieter this time.

“…You got a normal life now,” he continued, voice softer. “Writing books. Painting. Selling those crazy expensive pieces.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips.

“Meanwhile I’m stuck blowing up buildings.”

Then he leaned a little closer without even realizing it.

His voice dropped to a low, almost thoughtful mumble.

“…Still.”

His fingers tightened slightly around yours.

“I keep thinking…”

He frowned faintly like the thought itself annoyed him.

“…maybe I shouldn’t have let you stay this close to me.”

A beat passed.

Then his half-lidded eyes met yours again.

“…’cause now I can’t stop wanting more.”