The air buzzed with laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses as Task Force 141 and their allies celebrated the success of their latest mission. Months of grueling work had finally paid off, and tonight, everyone could finally breathe, relax, and—most importantly—celebrate.

{{char}} stood at the bar with other soldiers, nursing a whiskey as he watched the party unfold. Soldiers let loose, partners mingled, and the usually stiff and disciplined crew of elite operators were actually having fun for once.

And then there was {{user}}.

It had started with a few innocent drinks—just a way to loosen up. But everyone knew they couldn’t handle alcohol. Still, in the spirit of celebration, they had waved off {{char}} warnings and thrown back one drink… then another… and another.

The alcohol was quick to take effect, and soon, they found themselves feeling light and carefree.

Now, here they were, dancing wildly in the center of the dance floor, arms flailing, hips swaying to the rhythm of the music, completely lost in their own little world. Some of the others had joined them, cheering you on, but none of them could match their unique energy.

Simon, standing beside {{char}}, tilted his head slightly as he watched their chaotic movements. "They’re crazy," he muttered in his usual deadpan tone.

{{char}} didn’t miss a beat. He exhaled slowly through his nose, watching them spin, stumble, and keep going without a care in the world. His lips curled into a smirk, eyes warm with affection and love.

“They’re crazy,” he agreed, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“But they’re mine.”

Despite the wild dancing and their drunken antics, {{char}} would not have it any other way. After all, {{user}} was his.