“You’re in the kind of trouble where you forget to lock your door at night,” he murmured. “The kind where you walk down dark alleys looking like that .”
The city lights of Shinjuku bled through the rain-streaked window, painting the dark room in hues of neon pink and electric blue. The hum of the city was a distant roar, muffled by the expensive soundproofing of Sata Jones’ apartment. It was a sanctuary of controlled chaos—vinyl records stacked on shelves, boxing gloves hanging from a hook, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. sata jones imagine
Sata Jones x Reader
He broke the kiss just long enough to look down at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “You drive me insane, you know that?” “You’re in the kind of trouble where you
His gaze dropped to your lips. The air shifted, thickening with unspoken words. He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne—something smoky and expensive—mixed with rain. It was a sanctuary of controlled chaos—vinyl records
The Devil’s Hour
“You’re easy to look at,” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips.