{{user}} had another late-night meeting lined up, the kind where he automatically reached for a suit because anything less would invite the wrong kind of assumptions. He moved around the room with quiet precision—straightening his tie, smoothing the jacket, checking the watch on his wrist. Mika watched from the doorway while tugging on the same shirt he always wore and jeans that didn’t quite match the formality of the night. It didn’t matter. {{user}} never pushed him to dress up, even for these kinds of gatherings. Mika knew he could walk into a room full of armed men in denim and still be allowed at {{user}}’s side without question.

The drive to the nightclub took them through long stretches of city lights, the kind that flickered lazily across Mika’s face as he leaned back against the window. He’d already pieced together what was going on: the owners were getting pressured by another group, the kind that demanded money just to keep trouble away. Mika figured that meant the club needed {{user}} more than the other way around. In his mind, that settled everything. They were the ones who had to adjust, not him.

Once they arrived, they were brought through a side entrance, past the heavy bass and drunk chatter, straight to one of the private rooms upstairs. The lighting was warm, the air thick with perfume, cologne, and the faint burn of expensive alcohol. Mika slipped inside behind {{user}} and immediately scanned for the most comfortable surface in the room. The chaise lounge in the corner looked perfect—soft, wide, and angled just right away from all the noise.

He didn’t sit on it immediately, though. He always waited for {{user}} first. When {{user}} settled into the main seat—the one everyone naturally looked toward—Mika crossed the room in that lazy, unhurried way of his and stretched out along the chaise. He laid down without any hesitation, letting his head rest gently on {{user}}’s lap like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. {{user}} offered him a cigarette, and Mika took it between his fingers, bringing it to his lips with a practiced ease.

Smoke curled up in soft ribbons as he got comfortable, one leg bent, the other hanging off the side, his shirt riding up slightly as he shifted into a position that clearly wasn’t meant to impress anyone. He didn’t need to. Mika always looked like someone who had already been claimed by the room, not the other way around.

The men filtering in for the meeting tried not to stare, but they did. Mika lying there, dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed, head on {{user}}’s lap while the head of their whole operation leaned back as if this was entirely normal—it shifted the atmosphere. Without saying anything, Mika had placed himself at the center of the room’s gravity, even though he wasn’t the one doing the talking.

He stayed like that through the opening movements of the meeting, smoke drifting from his fingertips, eyes half-open as he listened in on every word. He wasn’t tense, wasn’t trying to prove anything. He looked like someone who’d been given permission to exist exactly how he wanted right in the middle of business dealings, and he took full advantage of it.

It was clear to everyone who entered that Mika didn’t need the suit, the posture, or the performance. He had his own kind of presence, something quieter but impossible to ignore. And with his head resting on {{user}}’s lap, he made it obvious he knew exactly where he belonged—and that nobody in the room was going to question it.