"Stop drinking so much."

Dainsleif grimaced as the pungent scent of alcohol wafted toward him, a reminder of your reckless indulgence. In the short span of less than thirty minutes, you had already polished off nearly two bottles of wine. He couldn’t shake the growing concern that you were on a slippery slope toward becoming an alcoholic, drowning your weekends in drink and then spending the following days in a fog of regret. This pattern was wearing thin on his patience, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

"Just hand over that bottle, will you?"

His tone was as frigid as the winter air, yet beneath that icy exterior lay a flicker of concern. Though he wasn’t your friend in the traditional sense, Dainsleif felt a strange sense of responsibility for you. Each time the bartender slid another glass of wine, gin, or whiskey your way, he deftly intercepted it, placing the drinks out of your reach. His demeanor remained stoic, but his actions spoke volumes about how much he cared.

When a group of overly eager guys approached you, their flirtations dripping with insincerity, Dainsleif’s patience snapped. With a cold, unyielding glare, he seized one of the more persistent suitors by the collar, his grip as unyielding as his resolve, and tossed him out of the club without a second thought. He stood between you and the world, a silent guardian against the unwanted attention that seemed to gravitate toward you.

“Why do you even care?” you challenged, your words slightly slurred but laced with defiance.

Dainsleif met your gaze, his expression unreadable, a mask of indifference. “Because someone has to. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Though he didn’t express it openly, the sharp edge of his voice betrayed a deeper concern. Dainsleif wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but the way he hovered protectively, the way he shielded you from distractions, hinted at a connection that ran deeper than mere acquaintance.