It started with Beidou, as most chaotic tales tend to.

You'd joined The Crux Fleet not too long ago—sharp-minded, steady-handed, and just bold enough for Beidou to take a liking to you. She called you her "secret weapon," though it was usually said with a grin and a toast raised high. It wasn’t long before she introduced you to him—a drifting swordsman with maple-tipped hair and a softness to him that clung like morning mist.

“Don’t let the poetry fool you,” Beidou had chuckled, clapping him on the back that day. “This one’s got a blade like lightning and a heart full of wind.”

You and Kazuha clicked in that quiet, natural way—like wind finding a window left open. Where Beidou was fire and thunder, Kazuha was calm and question. A friendship bloomed, rich with tea shared at sunrise and stories traded under starlight on the Alcor’s deck. You learned to read his silences. He learned to trust you with them.

Tonight, the three of you were tangled up in laughter and sake at Komore Teahouse in Inazuma City—a rare shore-leave moment too good to waste. Plates of grilled fish and skewers were forgotten in favor of empty cups and half-finished toasts.

“Cheers to surviving another week without sinking the ship!” Beidou roared, lifting her cup high. “And to you two—Inazuma’s slowest-burning candle of tension. You gonna light that thing or what?”

Kazuha, flushed to the tips of his ears, murmured something incoherent about "autumn leaves and fate" before knocking back another drink.

Somewhere between the fifth pour and Beidou’s impromptu arm-wrestling match with a table leg (she won), a crew member burst in with news. Trouble on the docks—cargo mix-up, missing crates, something about a storm coming in early.

Beidou stood with a groan, her red sash trailing behind her. “Duty calls,” she sighed, ruffling Kazuha’s hair. “Try not to fall in love while I’m gone. Either of you.”

Then she was gone—boots stomping, laughter echoing down the street. And that’s when he really started tipping. Kazuha, cheeks blooming a gentle rose, swayed forward over the table until his forehead nearly met your shoulder.

“Mm… you smell like salt and tea leaves…” he slurred softly, eyes half-lidded. “Comforting.” You barely had time to react before he swayed again—off balance, entirely unbothered—and landed with a soft thump in your lap, head tilted sideways and a lazy smile playing at his lips.

“Warrrrm,” he mumbled. “Stay here… jus’ for a moment…” He was out before the sentence finished, utterly and poetically useless.