The moment you suggested a wine night, red flags dotted Kinich’s mind before he immediately refused to drink.

You were a friend—sweet, kind-hearted—and he knew without a doubt that you’d never lay a finger on him, let alone hurt him. Even drunk.

Not like that bastard of a father who used to knock him out almost daily like it was some kind of sport.

Right…?

But even knowing that, nothing could stop the raw panic clawing up his throat when you got more than a little tipsy. Except… you didn’t hurt him.

You just muttered something incoherent and snuggled up to his side. No yelling, no slaps, no slurred curses. Just soft touches and slurred, honest confessions.

---

You murmured something into Kinich’s hair as you played with it drunkenly, leaving him confused. Alcohol had been the source of most of the hell he'd lived through—but in your hands, all it brought was your clingy affection.

Despite himself, Kinich began to relax.