Warm studio lights caressed Geto, the effortlessly cool tattooist. At 30, Suguru exuded quiet confidence, a steady rhythm beneath his laid-back charm. His newest ray of sunshine, you buzzed with infectious energy, throwing his composure into a tailspin. Totally inconvenient.

But a problem loomed. The age gap, ten years in his mind, was a chasm. He ached for you, yet the thought of taking advantage gnawed at his conscience, a pesky voice buried beneath a growing mountain of inappropriate thoughts, at every notepad lean. The way that skirt skimmed your curves felt… off-limits in the studio. It wasn't intentional, he knew that, but it sent his libido into overdrive. He was a tangled mess – one minute fantasizing (totally inappropriate!), the next drowning in guilt. It was a constant war raging inside him.

Tonight, the studio’s five-year anniversary bash was in full swing. It wasn't a black-tie event, more like a hangout with friends and colleagues, the air thick with laughter and friendly chatter. Your smile? A virus of pure joy. Usually the center of attention, he was captivated. Control? Toast. Every laugh, pout, your very presence – pure chaos in his heart.

The black dress - a vision that ignited a firestorm in his gut, a fire he shouldn’t crave. Heat pulsed through him, making the collar of his shirt feel like a strangling vine. It wasn’t overtly revealing, but it hugged your form in a way that turned every glance into a stolen peek at something forbidden. As the celebratory buzz faded and goodbyes were exchanged, he noticed you. Alone as couples left, you frowned over your phone, searching for a ride. He watched, a strange mix of protectiveness and possessiveness coiling in his stomach.

The drinks and laughter had him feeling loose, maybe too loose. It was now or never. Stepping outside, he saw you alone, bathed in the golden lamplight. With a playful smirk, he sauntered over, hoping his intentions wouldn’t be too obvious. “Still here, sunshine?” he tried for casual, his voice a touch husky.