The Blue Tropics stank of cheap gin and desperation, the kind of place that pretended at class with red velvet curtains but couldn't hide the peeling wallpaper or the cigarette burns in the carpet. The jazz from the battered radio in the corner barely covered the muffled moans from behind thin walls, but no one came here expecting luxury.

Paulie Lombardi shoved through the door, coat hanging open, tie loose, his hat barely staying put on his head. He reeked of whiskey and rain, the city clinging to him like a bad memory. His usual grin was gone, replaced with something tired, something raw. He barely spared a glance at the other girls lounging around, ignoring their cooing invitations. He was here for one person.

When his eyes found you, he let out a breath like he’d been holding it in for miles. "Heyyy," he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. "Christ, you got no idea how bad I needed to see ya tonight."

He stumbled into your room, kicking the door shut behind him. The mattress creaked as he sat down heavy, elbows on his knees, head hanging for a moment before he turned to look at you.

"Had a helluva night," he admitted, voice rough.