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Ducking out of the way just as a woman around your age took a swing at you, you didn’t spill a drop of your nearly neon-blue drink as you made your way through the crowd. A fight was breaking out behind you, the woman having missed you and popped another person in the face instead. You glanced back at the commotion and snickered, only to face the front again and being suddenly pulled into a booth.
“Darling, sweetheart, my dear. Are you up to no good?” Your abductor was none other than the owner, Roman Sionis, who was smiling as warm as he could at you. You grinned and shrugged, sipping your now half-empty glass.
“When am I not, Romy, baby?” You cooed. His laugh rang out in the booth, making your grin pull at the corners. Roman had a soft spot for you. The owner of the Black Mask Club had the patience for few and a soft spot for even fewer if any. Except you. While most that caused disruption in his domain were banned from the club (some rumored to be banned from, well, living, period), he almost encouraged it from you. And you took full advantage.
“That’s a good question, isn’t it? You’re always into some kind of trouble,” Roman pointed out, arm wrapped over the back of the seat, fingers just barely grazing the tip of your shoulder. You grinned and shrugged, crossing your legs and getting comfortable in your seat. When you went to take a sip of your half-spilled concerningly-blue drink, Roman tutted and waved a waitress over.
“Get her a new one, on the house.”
“Oh, Romy, you spoil me,” You teased, gently patting his cheek, pulling your hand away the moment he turned his cheek into your palm.
“What else can I do for my favorite patron?” Roman leaned forward and took his own drink from the coaster, a gold and red little thing that matched the booth and, pointedly, his suit, before taking a sip, giving you a wink.
Other than trips to the bathroom, you spent the rest of your time in the club that night in his booth, pretending to ignore remarks from his “friends” telling the two of you to get a room anytime you interacted, asking when the wedding was, jabbing remarks towards how soft Roman was. You could see the last brand of comments bothered him, even if it was minute twinges at the corners of his eyes or the smallest falter in his large grin.
His grin would change, somehow wider yet warmer when his attention was on you or what he was saying was directed at you. While he avoided touching others unless necessary to uphold some kind of image, he would casually touch you almost consistently. A hand on your knee, being the one to offer you a napkin then subsequently wipe the whipped cream from the dessert he’d ordered for you himself, even going so far as to absentmindedly push a strand of hair behind your ear when you’d laughed and thrown your head back, making it fall gently to the side of your face when you regained composure.
The thing about Roman was that he was tired of images. Fake fucking fucks. Cronies. You were genuine. You had fun when you wanted to have fun and kept to yourself when you didn’t. You laughed at some of his jokes and paid no mind to the others, but when you did, they were real laughs. You were the only one at the table who knew when he was serious and when he wasn’t, clapping him on the back when he would be threatening as a joke and the rest of the booth would go silent.
So, he insisted on walking you out each time you left his club, insisted on offering for his driver to take you home, insisted on paying for your cab when you declined. Every Saturday.
But this night, he was quieter in his insistences, in his offers. This night he had a respectful arm across your lower back, handing you the money for your cab before you could decline but not opening the door for you like he usually did.
Roman, quiet? As if.
“Is something wrong, Roman?” He was almost taken aback by your concern, running a hand through his hair. You watched formerly slicked back hair fall in the wake of his hand. At the beginning of the night, Roman’s hair was done as particularly as he liked to keep it, but by now, it was slightly disheveled and almost comfortable. That being said, it had fallen. You took the opportunity to repay the favor from earlier, pushing stray strands of hair back for him and letting the hand linger on his cheek.
“Nothing wrong, no,” Roman started. Seeing this man as anything but the confident facade he put forth would shake anybody but you, so him shifting from one foot to the other only barely confused you, “I’m going to kiss you, I think.”
There it was. He wouldn’t ask. He’d tell you, but it wasn’t a warning. It was to allow you to decline or accept, but he wouldn’t be Roman Sionis if he asked. Asking was too vulnerable. So he said it, and in that, he was asking. You found it adorable.
Or, you would, if you weren’t fighting the rising feeling of excited anticipation.
“I won’t stop you.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t,” He admitted, taking your hand and pulling you up against him, your fronts lined up almost too well as his arm wrapped around your lower back again. He pushed the tips of his fingers through your hair, palm resting comfortably against your cheek. It was your turn to nuzzle into his hand, and you did so, bringing your hand up to cup his.
“So? I’m waiting,” You lulled, snapping him out of staring at you. He was almost swaying to music that wasn’t there as he leaned down and kissed you, just hard enough that you leaned into him for more.
When his lips parted to deepen the kiss, you took the chance to leave him hanging, pulling away from him with a smirk as he followed your lips. You could see his pout forming, almost invisible, but you were you and Roman was, well… Roman.
“Same time next week, Romy?” You asked sweetly. He blinked at you and opened his mouth, about to voice his confusion, “Unless you’re willing to ride in a cab back to mine.”
Roman took the cab ride without a word of insistence for his personal driver.