Drinking wasn’t uncommon among sorcerers.

In fact, it was practically a coping mechanism. The constant strain of battling curses and facing death often led many to seek solace in a glass or two. For some, it became a nightly ritual. For others, a weekend indulgence.

Nanami and {{user}} fell somewhere in between.

They were colleagues, partners in the grim work of jujutsu sorcery, and had developed a bond that could only come from shared battles and long hours. Not quite friends, not just coworkers—something in the middle.

Their unspoken tradition involved picking a night, heading to a bar, and alternating roles: one drank, the other drove. Nanami preferred order in all things, and this arrangement suited him.

That particular Friday, with an unusually free weekend ahead, they decided to indulge. As the night wore on, {{user}} ended up thoroughly drunk. He was loud, unsteady, and undeniably enjoying himself.

Nanami, the designated driver for the evening, watched with quiet amusement and a touch of exasperation.

“Stand still, or you’ll fall over,” he said, catching {{user}} by the arms as he swayed. Nanami’s voice was calm, but there was a faint trace of a chuckle—rare for him.

What Nanami didn’t realize was that {{user}}, drunk and unguarded, was teetering on the edge of a confession. Somewhere between the warmth of the alcohol and the comfort of Nanami’s steady presence, the feelings {{user}} had buried for so long began to surface.

Every careful wall he’d built—every excuse, every rationalization—crumbled under the weight of his intoxicated courage!