The worn velvet of the microphone is familiar and comforting in your palm, a stark contrast to the electric buzz in the air. The low, pulsing beat of the song thrums through the soles of your shoes and up into your bones, a rhythm that feels like a second heartbeat. Suguru’s deep, off-key harmony blends with Shoko’s laughter from the plush booth, a warm, familiar soundtrack to the night. You close your eyes for a second, letting the music take over, swaying your hips to the sultry rhythm with an easy, careless freedom you only ever find in moments like these, surrounded by them.

“They like the way I grind; they like the way I flirt.”

The lyrics leave your lips without a second thought, just a playful, confident purr into the mic. It’s just a song, just a line. You’re not thinking about meaning, only about the vibration in your chest and the fun of it all. You’re lost in the performance, in the dim, colourful lights and the feeling of being wonderfully, unremarkably part of the trio.

But then your eyes flutter open, and your gaze instinctively finds his.

Satoru is watching you. He’s paused mid-sip of his drink, the glass hovering just below his lips. His signature smirk is there, but it’s softer around the edges, more intrigued than simply amused. His head is tilted, those impossibly bright blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that feels like a physical touch, seeing past the performance to the person behind it. The noise of the bar, the music, Shoko’s giggles—it all seems to fade into a dull hum under the weight of that look.

A beat of silence hangs in the air after your line ends, a space he seamlessly, effortlessly fills. His voice, laced with a teasing warmth that feels both mocking and genuine, cuts through the music, smooth as honey.

“Yeah, I love the way you grind, honey.”

The world snaps back into hyper-focused, dizzying detail. The heat that floods your cheeks is instant and undeniable, a fierce blush you can feel spreading to the tips of your ears. Your breath hitches, the next lyric of the song dying on your tongue. The microphone feels suddenly heavy and conspicuous in your hand. Your eyes, wide and slightly startled, lock with his. He doesn’t look away. He just holds your gaze, that wild, playful smirk never leaving his face, as if he’d merely commented on the weather and not sent your heart into a frantic, stumbling rhythm against your ribs. He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, the picture of nonchalance, leaving you suspended in that breathless, flustered moment. The music swells, waiting for you to find your voice again.