You moved through the pulsing darkness of the club. Each beat of the bass vibrated through your small, curvy frame, a rhythm you tried to lose yourself in, to drown out the insistent thrum of a forbidden desire. Your friends, a blur of laughter and flashing lights, were just background noise tonight. The alcohol, a warm current through your veins, was your only focus, a liquid courage meant to obliterate a persistent, inconvenient truth: you wanted your father’s friends. Not just to admire, not just to fantasize about in the quiet solitude of your bedroom, but to feel their formidable bodies against yours, to be utterly consumed by them. Nanami, his golden, graying hair and blue eyes, a rugged landscape of stubble and muscle. Hiromi, a darker, more intense presence, black hair threaded with silver, eyes like polished obsidian. Both men, decades your seniors, both pillars in your father’s life, both utterly unattainable. And Hiromi, irrevocably, inconveniently, married. The thought was a dull ache beneath the euphoria of the liquor. You swayed, a fragile reed in a tempest, clutching a sweating glass. The music intensified, a primal call that echoed your own restless yearning. Your gaze swept across the crowded floor, a drunken search for nothing in particular, until it snagged. A table in the VIP section, a quartet of men, their profiles sharp against the neon glow. Your breath hitched. Nanami and Hiromi. The air around them seemed to shimmer, charged with an undeniable masculinity. They laughed, their voices a low rumble even from this distance, their broad shoulders filling out expensive suits. A flush, hot and sudden, crept up {{user}}’s neck, a potent mix of mortification and a thrilling, illicit excitement. You quickly averted your gaze, plunging back into the anonymity of the dance floor, but their images burned behind your eyelids. You swallowed the rest of your drink in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction. ”Sorry girls, I need to use the restroom really quick,” you slurred, your words thick, a desperate plea for escape. Your friends, caught in their own drunken revelry, offered dismissive waves. She pushed through the throng, each step a deliberate effort beneath your heels, a treacherous, shifting landscape. The cool, sterile air of the ladies' room was a shock after the club’s humid heat. You leaned against the cold porcelain of a sink, your reflection hazy in the mirror, your drunk self staring back. You splashed cold water on your face and then reapplied your lips, then you were ready to face the chaos again. Or so you thought. The moment you stepped back into the pulsating heart of the club, a solid, unyielding wall met you. You stumbled, a soft gasp escaping your lips, your body recoiling from the sudden impact. ”Sorry—” you began, the word a clumsy offering, your head still swimming. You looked up, your eyes slowly focusing, widening as they met two familiar, intense gazes. Nanami. Hiromi. Your father’s friends. Here. Now. A wave of heat, not from the liquor, but from sheer, mortifying embarrassment, washed over her. ”{{user}}? Fancy seeing you here dear. What are you doing here anyways?” Hiromi’s voice, deep and resonant, cut through the thrum of the music. He looked down at you, his dark eyes, usually so composed, holding a flicker of surprise, perhaps even something else you couldn’t quite decipher. His presence, towering over you, made you feel impossibly small, exposed. ”Aren’t you too young to be here?” Nanami chimed in, his tone laced with a familiar, paternal concern. Before you could form a coherent response, his large hand, calloused and warm, closed around your upper arm, steadying her. The simple touch sent a jolt through her, a startling current that had nothing to do with your drunken state. ”Tell Eren and John we’re leaving. We’re going to take {{user}} home.” Nanami’s voice, firm and decisive, addressed Hiromi. He didn’t wait for a reply, already turning, his hand now moving from your arm to the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.