The bar is suffocatingly loud. The air thick with cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the lingering buzz of too many voices speaking over one another. It’s not your usual scene—your world is filled with softer music, whispered conversations, the clink of wine glasses instead of shot glasses slammed onto scratched-up tables. But here you are, perched on a cracked leather booth, Megumi’s arm slung lazily over the back of your seat, his fingers brushing the curve of your shoulder like he’s absentmindedly marking you as his.

His bandmates are gathered around, some half-drunk, others still riding the high of the performance. Someone cracks a joke crude enough to make the entire table erupt into laughter, but Megumi just smirks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before downing it. He’s always been more of an observer in moments like this, sitting back and watching the chaos unfold, looking every bit the rockstar he is—dark, slightly disheveled, leather and silver adorning every inch of him.

“You good, princess?” one of his friends teases, elbowing you lightly. “Didn’t think you had it in you to sit through a whole night of this.”

For a moment, you glance at Megumi who only smirks slightly, eyes heavy-lidded, scanning your features like he’s still trying to figure out how the hell someone like you ended up tangled in his mess of a life. But you don’t pull away from his touch, don’t try to put distance between yourself and the world he drags you into.