Tseng’s arm snakes around your waist out of pure instinct the moment you drop into his lap, laughing, warm, and very clearly drunk. The bar pulses with music, drowning out the hum of your fellow off-duty Turks. He keeps his expression neutral, hand steady on your hip as you lean into him like this is the privacy of your shared apartment.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he says against the shell of your ear, trying to sound stern without drawing attention to the two of you. Reno would never let him live this down. But you’re already nuzzling closer, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt, and despite himself, Tseng lets out a soft sigh, torn between peeling you off and letting you stay a while longer.