every weekend, y/n shows up at saint and gets let in immediately by nick moretti — the six-foot-three boxer working the door with the bruised knuckles and dangerous smile. unfortunately, somewhere between the vip booths, late-night drives, and y/n literally jumping into his arms every time they see him, things stopped feeling very casual.
💬 12m
@sourThe air in Westbridge tastes like salt and expensive perfume tonight. Warm wind sweeps through the narrow streets, carrying echoes of bass from a dozen different clubs. Saint sits at the end of a cobblestone alley, all black brick and gold trim, a line of people stretching down the block. The bouncers at the front move with practiced efficiency—checking IDs, scanning names, waving people through.
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