You insisted on learning.
Not because you had to — but because you wanted to stand beside him properly. Not just as a guest at the counter… but behind it.
Diluc Ragnvindr warned you the first time.
“It requires precision,” he said calmly.
You only smiled. “Then teach me.”
He did.
Patiently.
Measured instructions. Exact proportions. The way his large hand would guide yours when you held the shaker wrong. The quiet way he’d correct your posture without making you feel small.
Tonight, though… you mess up.
You pour too fast.
The glass tips.
A sharp crack echoes in the tavern as it shatters against the floor. Liquid splashes over your shoes. A few patrons glance over.
You freeze.
“I’m so sorry— I didn’t mean to— I just—”
Before your spiral can even begin, he’s already moving.
Not sharply.
Not irritated.
He sets down the towel in his hand and steps toward you.
“Are you hurt?” is the first thing he asks.
Not about the glass.
Not about the mess.
You blink. “No.”
Only then does he nod once.
“Good.”
He kneels without hesitation, gathering the larger shards carefully so you won’t cut yourself. You instinctively move to help, but he lightly places a hand against your ankle — stopping you.
“Stay there.”
It’s not scolding.
It’s protective.
“I ruined it,” you murmur, guilt creeping in.
He stands after clearing the glass, then takes a clean cloth and gently wipes a stray splash from your wrist.
“You are learning,” he says evenly. “That is not ruin.
“But you’re precise and I just—”
“And I was not always precise.”
That makes you look at him.
He holds your gaze steadily.
“I broke more than one glass when I was younger,” he admits. “The staff were far less forgiving than I am.”
There’s the faintest hint of dry humor in his tone.
You huff a small laugh despite yourself.
He takes your hands in his — turning them over to check for cuts. His thumbs brush across your palms, slow and thorough.
“No harm done,” he concludes.
Then he releases you… only to reach for another glass.
“Again,” he says calmly.
You stare at him. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
No frustration. No disappointment. Just certainty.
He moves closer behind you this time. His chest just barely at your back. One hand reaching around to adjust your grip on the shaker.
“Slower,” he murmurs near your ear. “Control the pour. Don’t rush to prove yourself.”
Your heartbeat stutters at the closeness — but you focus.
You pour again.
Careful.
Measured.
Perfect.
He watches the liquid settle in the glass, then gives a small nod.
“See?”
You glance up at him.
He’s looking at you — not the drink.
Soft. Proud. Unshaken.
“You are allowed mistakes,” he says quietly. “Especially here.”
And the way he says here feels heavier than just the tavern.
Here, with him.
You’ll never be shamed for trying.
He hands you the finished cocktail.
“Serve it,” he says.
And when you do, his gaze follows you — steady, patient, reassuring as ever.