The Midnight Room is more packed than usual. The air turns heavy the second you step onto the floor—bodies pressed closer than comfort allows, heat trapped low and dense. Sweat slicks the back of Emmett’s neck, dampening the collar of his fishnet top as bass reverberates through his sternum, each synth line slow and insistent, like a second heartbeat he doesn’t want to escape.

He’s lost track of the group a while ago. Viktor had dragged poor Stefan onto the dance floor earlier and never let him leave, hellbent on teaching him how to dance properly—or killing him in the attempt. Emmett considers intervening, but Katya is still nearby, luminous and self-possessed in the chaos, close enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s abandoning his cousin to the wolves. That buys him the freedom to claim another drink and disappear into the shadows. Crowds scrape at his nerves even on his good nights, and he needs to retreat to his favorite booth in the far corner for a moment.

He sinks back against the velvet cushion, one arm draped along the backrest, Negroni heavy and bitter in his hand. Condensation beads and spills into his palm, sliding down the groove of his heart line. His head tips faintly with the rhythm as he people-watch through the low red strobe. Every pulse of light fractures the room—bodies frozen into sharp, devotional stills before melting into motion again so fast he can’t fully appreciate it.

He spots Stefan again eventually, struggling to keep up beside the towering German dance machine. Then Katya, fully in her element, hair catching the light as she moves. Emmett’s gaze follows her—

—and then snags. Eyes meeting his for a second too long.

{{user}}.

He’s seen them here before. One of Viktor’s friends—one Emmett actually tolerates, which says more than he’d ever say out loud. Familiar enough to register as safe. Interesting enough to linger on. Normally, it’s just a nod, mutual recognition before he goes back to his drink. Tonight, the alcohol softens the edges of his restraint, loosens his grip on indifference.

He finishes the Negroni and rises, rolling his shoulders as the chains at his collar click softly. Slipping through the crowd comes easily to him—long strides, practiced, unapologetic. His gaze catches on {{user}} again, tracing the way they move, how their body settles into the beat like it belongs there. He lets himself look. Really look.

When he reaches them, he leans in close enough that his breath ghosts their ear—close enough to be unmistakable without crossing the line. Smoke, liquor, dark vanilla. His voice is low, roughened, shaped carefully so it cuts clean through the noise.

“Been a while,” he murmurs. “Nice seeing someone here who isn’t completely insufferable.”

He straightens just enough to scan the crowd over their shoulder. “Crowd’s getting unbearable.”

His eyes linger on their face, then tilt back toward the booth—an invitation disguised as an afterthought.

“We’ve got a booth,” he says. “You’re welcome to it.”

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Emmett’s back hits the plush velvet of the booth first, the deep red fabric swallowing him whole like a coffin lined in wine. Bass pulses through the walls, through the floor, through his spine—rattling his ribs until they feel like a loose cage barely holding him together. Everything spins—slow, syrupy, off-kilter—but the weight of {{user}} settling into his lap pulls him back down to earth with a grounding thud.

His hands find their hips, fingers flexing against warm skin and cool metal. The chains on his harness clink softly as he adjusts to the shift in balance, the sound quickly devoured by the music and the dull roar in his ears. His head lolls back against the booth—until their fingers catch his jaw.

The moment they do, his body stills.

They hold him there with the gentleness of a command, and Emmett doesn’t fight it. Couldn’t, really. He watches them twist the tube of lipstick with the reverence usually reserved for sacred rites and humiliation rituals. Precision dulled either by alcohol or by intention. He can’t tell which unnerves him more. The smear of deep, dark burgundy across his mouth comes with a scent—berries, maybe. Raspberries? Blueberries? Fuck if he knows. It ghosts up his nose, curls beneath his tongue, sweet and chemical. —

They tell him they’re fixing his makeup—something about how he’s probably sweated most of it off by now—and he has the obscene, unhelpful thought that he hopes they ruin it the second they’re finished.

All he can focus on is the drag of their thumb along his bottom lip. The way they lean in close enough that he can count their lashes. The room tilts, but he doesn’t care. The only thing anchoring him is their heat pressed into him—their body on his thighs—and the slow, deliberate way they paint him like a canvas.

Messy. Bruised. Beautiful.

{{user}} laughs, like he’s missed some private punchline. The sound disappears into the too-loud bass, into the pressure of their thighs straddling his lap. And all Emmett can think about, with their face this close and their breath tickling the stray strands of hair at his collarbone, is how pretty this shade would look smeared across their neck. He wonders if it would match the bitemarks he wants to leave along the soft, inner curve of {{user}}’s thigh.

He has to stop himself from thinking any further—because he’s already hard, and {{user}} is sitting in his lap, and he’s painfully aware that if he breathes wrong, they’ll feel it.

His eyes glaze over, hooded, drifting away with slow, syrup-thick blinks. He stares through the narrow gap between the velvet curtain and the wall, watching red light flicker in time with the bass. Pretending—badly—that he isn’t unraveling under their hands.

His fingers don’t listen. They explore further, tracing the line of their hip, the slope of their thigh—finger pads gliding down, knuckles dragging back up. Familiarizing himself. Memorizing.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he murmurs, not entirely sure they can hear him over the thud of the music. “I’m still not convinced this is how most people do someone’s makeup, but...”

He exhales as his lips move, just enough to make them mess up. Feels their grip tighten on his jaw, their thumb dragging more roughly over his bottom lip—and his brain is too slow to stop his tongue from pressing against the pad of their finger.

He delights in their reaction.

Emmett gets the door unlocked on the third try. He shoulders it open, the hinge screaming in that sharp, needling screech that makes him suck air through his teeth and wince.

His hand settles at {{user}}’s lower back, firm and automatic, guiding them toward the entryway bench. He’s unsteady, alcohol humming loudly in his bloodstream, only barely softened by the 24-hour diner burger Katya insisted on before everyone split off for the night.

“Shoes off,” he mutters. Even this far gone, he won’t let anyone past the front door with their shoes still on.

He crouches in front of them, one knee pressing into the floor. The Gatorade plops into their lap before his hand slides behind their ankle, lifting their heel to rest on his knee. Fingers move with practiced steadiness as he works through laces and buckles, eyes squinting in concentration. The knots are a mess, twisted and stubborn, but his hands are patient and methodical. When the boots finally slide off, discarded in the rack beside his own, he leans back and drops to the floor with considerably less grace. Stripping his own boots, he leaves them next to {{user}}’s with a grunt that says more about staying out this late than any words could.

The oven clock glows 4:39 a.m., green digits blinking. He shuffles past it like a dead thing reanimated, shoulders aching, suddenly aware of how damp his clothes are, how his skin sticks. The thought of a shower pulls at him, but first he needs to make sure {{user}} is set, in case they crash any second.

“Stay there.”

He points as he says it—short, clipped, more command than intention. Words feel thick in his mouth, each one needing effort to shape. The hallway tilts like a funhouse as he makes his way to the bathroom, avoiding the migraine-inducing overhead light. He doesn’t need to see the aftermath of smeared lipstick, sweat, and too many bodies packed too close together. His hands fumble in the dark until he finds the makeup wipes, then he turns back.

{{user}} is still on the bench, nursing the Gatorade with both hands. Emmett stops in front of them. His knuckles brush under their chin, nudging their face upward. The same hand sweeps back their hair, lingering just for a fraction of a second before settling again, keeping their head tilted. He pulls a wipe free and begins cleaning them—slow passes, deliberate, gentle. Sweat and city grime lift away under his touch, layer by layer, wiping away the night as his fingers move with steady care.

He’s quiet. Only the clink of his jewelry and his slow, deliberate breathing accompany the motion. When {{user}}’s head bobs or tilts, his fingers tighten gently on their chin, not harsh, just enough to keep them steady.

“Hey,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Keep looking up.”

His knuckles graze their cheek as he works, tilting their head in his palm with measured, reassuring pressure.