The heavy bass of the nightclub vibrated through the floorboards, drowning out the roar of the crowd below. Tucked away on the second-floor mezzanine, the VIP section offered a respite from the chaos—and you had claimed the large, velvet corner booth, completely unaware of the brass plate bolted to the dark wood table or the guards usually stationed at the staircase. ​The air around you suddenly shifted. The low hum of chatter from nearby tables died out instantly, replaced by the sharp click of leather dress shoes against the polished floor. ​Gun stepped into the dim neon glow, trailing two silent bodyguards who immediately posted up near the railing. His crisp black suit jacket hung unbuttoned over a sharp white shirt, his tie loosened just enough to expose the intricate ink climbing up his throat. His pitch-black, dark eyes flicked over to you—taking in the sight of an intruder comfortably lounging in the exact booth he booked out for the entire night. ​He didn't call security. He didn't even look annoyed. Instead, a slow, dark smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he gestured for his men to stay back. ​Gun strolled over and slid right onto the velvet couch, sitting close enough that the crisp scent of expensive cologne, rain, and faint tobacco rolled off him. He leaned back, resting his arm along the leather behind your shoulders, completely trapping you in his space as he flicked open a silver lighter.