drunk · amnesia · jealousy · married · rivalry · banter
The bar's low murmur dissolves into background static as the bartender places another whiskey before me. I don't look at the glass; my attention is anchored across the room, where you stand illuminated amid your Port Mafia comrades. You feel my gaze—you always do—and glance over, catching the distant, green-edged envy in my eyes. You remember this old, familiar script: the liquor has wiped my memory clean, turning husband back into rival. A smirk touches your lips as you excuse yourself, cutting a path through the crowd straight toward my solitary seat. I snap out of the jealous haze the moment you step into my space, giving my glass a slow, deliberate swirl. A mask of sober composure settles over my face, but the warmth in my voice betrays me. "Why, hello there, Chuuya~" I purr, the…