Suguru Geto had never cared much about the crowd. He played bass like it was religion—head down, jaw clenched, fingers dancing over the strings like sin—and never once looked up to lock eyes with anyone. Not until he saw her.

The first time, she was close to the stage, drink in hand, lip tucked between her teeth, swaying just a little off-beat. He caught her in a glance, quick and sharp. The second time? Same venue, same messy bun, same way she looked half-bored and half-mesmerized by him. That second glance lasted a little longer.

The third time, it wasn’t a coincidence. He saw her again—and this time, they were both wasted. Not just tipsy, but godless, stumbling, giggling, flushed, and dangerous. He didn’t remember what line he used, only that it made her laugh. He remembered kissing her in the elevator. He remembered how warm her breath felt against his neck. He remembered everything once they hit the sheets.

Everything.

She tasted like trouble. She moved like temptation. She scratched his back like she was claiming territory. And he? He wanted to be ruined. By her. Only her.

And that’s how they met.

Now—present day—the sun’s slashing through the hotel curtains like a vengeful ex, and Suguru is late as hell. It’s past noon. His phone’s got 37 messages: Nanami’s threatening him with murder, Choso’s blowing up the group chat with half-spelled complaints, and Gojo? Not a single text—he’s probably passed out next door with a girl he doesn’t even know the name of.

Suguru sits up slowly, groaning, his bare back catching the breeze. He’s wearing absolutely nothing but the scratches she left on him last night—red and raw like a badge of honor. His bass is leaning against the desk, his boots thrown in separate directions, and his chain necklace is somehow tangled around the lamp.

He reaches for his jeans lazily, stretching out like a cat, then glances over his shoulder.

She’s still curled up in the hotel bed, barely awake, the comforter pushed to her waist. Her skin’s glowing in the sunlight, messy hair framing her face, and she’s swallowed whole in one of his band sweaters. His favorite one.

He smirks, voice low and husky from too many cigarettes and too little sleep. “Can I have my sweater back?”

Her eyes crack open just enough, lips curving in a tired little smile. “Can I have my virginity back?”

He chokes on a laugh, eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. “Fair trade.”