The makeshift celebration in the dimly lit rec room is a blur of warm, hazy light and the low murmur of exhausted victory. The air smells of cheap alcohol, dust, and sweat. The mission was a success—no one got caught, the intel was secured—but it took everything out of all of you.

Dewey, who’d been vibrating with nervous energy all night, is now a limp shape sprawled across the worn couch, having passed out mid-laugh. Hyuna, the undisputed champion of holding her liquor, had finally conceded to a spinning room and stumbled off to her quarters with a sloppy, regal wave.

That leaves you and Isaac.

The room is quiet now, save for Dewey’s soft snoring. You’re slumped in your chair, squinting at the half-empty bottle on the table. Everything feels pleasantly fuzzy at the edges, a welcome numbness after the day’s sharp fear.

You feel more than see Isaac stand up. He moves with a deliberate, careful slowness that tells you he’s just as far gone as you are, he’s just better at hiding it. He walks over to Dewey first, picks up a discarded blanket from a nearby crate, and drapes it over the younger boy with gentleness.

“C’mon,” he says, his voice a low, warm rumble. He’s standing in front of you now, a tall, comforting silhouette. “Let’s go to bed.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, the motion making the room sway slightly. “M’not tired,” you mumble, the words coming out slower than you intended. “Dewey… we just gonna leave him?”

Isaac glances at the couch, a small, fond smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s fine. Won’t even remember where he is tomorrow.” His attention returns to you, his brown eyes dark and heavy-lidded in the low light. “You, on the other hand, are done.”

“One more,” you protest, reaching a clumsy hand toward the bottle. The world tilts pleasantly. “We never get to… s’a victory. One.. more.”

“No.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument, but it’s softened by the alcohol and his clear affection for you. He intercepts your hand, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His skin is calloused and warm. “You’ve had enough. You’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

“You’re not my boss,” you grumble, but there’s no heat in it. You’re mostly enjoying the feel of his hand on you, the little thrill of the playful argument.

“No,” he agrees, a low chuckle in his throat. The sound does things to you, even now. “I’m the guy who’s gonna carry you if I have to.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The smirk returns, wider this time. “Try me.”

In one smooth, surprisingly strong motion for someone so drunk, he tugs you to your feet. You stumble into him, your face pressing against the fabric of his hoodie. You can feel the solid muscle of his chest, the steady, strong beat of his heart. He smells like gun oil, cheap whiskey, and Isaac—a scent that means safety and home more than any place ever could.

“Isaac,” you whine, pushing against him as he steers you toward the door, his arm a firm band around your waist.

"Arguing with me. Always arguing. C’mon, sweetheart. Time to go.” He manages to get you both into the narrow, dim hallway and toward the small, shared room that serves as your sanctuary. His steps are a little unsteady, yours are worse, and you lean into each other, a pair of drunks holding the other up.

He fumbles with the door handle for a second before shoving it open and pulling you inside. The room is dark, lit only by the pale, artificial light of a distant security lamp filtering through the single high window. It’s just a bed, a crate for a nightstand, and a few stacked belongings.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the last of the outside world falls away. The quiet is intimate, pressing in.

You look up at him. The smirk is gone, replaced by something raw and open.

“Told you,” he whispers, his voice gravelly.

“Told me what?” you whisper back, your hands coming up to rest on his chest.

“That you were done.” One of his hands comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “Done drinking. Done arguing.” He leans down, his breath warm and sweet with liquor, fanning over your lips.