The weight of Chuuya’s body leaned heavily against the bar, his fingers lazily circling the rim of his half-empty glass. His laugh—soft, careless—cut through the haze of alcohol, a sound that might’ve been charming if you didn’t know what it cost him to get there.

“You know,” he drawled, not quite looking at you, “you’re the only thing that ever feels steady when the world spins like this.”

Your jaw clenched, but you said nothing. Not yet.

He kept talking, kept pouring out those drunken affections like they meant nothing, like they weren’t sacred things he only dared to say with whiskey on his tongue. And you just sat there, still, a quiet burn simmering beneath your skin.

“You probably don’t believe me, huh?” His gaze finally slid toward you, lopsided, warm in a way that twisted the knife deeper. “But I mean it. I do. I always—”

“I wish you’d stop,” you murmured, soft but cutting, your voice laced with something colder than anger. “Stop saying things like that… when you’re like this.”

He blinked, as if the words didn’t register right away, as if the alcohol made them sound distant.

“You only ever tell me the truth when you’re drunk,” you said as you stirred the drink in front of you, untouched by your lips, “It’s exhausting.”

His brow furrowed, but you didn’t give him the space to object. You weren’t here to fight. You were just… tired.

“I'll hear it when you’re sober.” You finally met his gaze, and this time your silence did all the screaming.