He never drank. That was a rule. A personal one, probably forged out of discipline and a fear of losing control—two things Zero held onto with an iron grip. But tonight? Tonight, that grip slipped.

It had started so innocently. A celebration after a particularly grueling mission, one that had left even Lass admitting he was tired. You’d barely settled at the tavern before someone handed Zero a tall mug of beer, claiming he "deserved it more than anyone tonight." He eyed it warily, hesitating, but you’d caught his expression—the smallest twitch of curiosity. He brought the glass to his lips and took one sip. You could almost hear the dominoes falling after that.

Now, hours later, it was well past midnight, and you stood just inside your shared quarters, the door creaking shut behind you as you locked it. The tavern had long since emptied. The team had trickled off to their rooms, and you’d come looking for him when he didn’t show up.

Zero was there.

On the floor.

On his knees.

And then, like some melodramatic villain in a stage play, he collapsed forward and hugged your legs, nearly knocking you over in the process.

You flinched, blinking down at the man now rubbing his cheek shamelessly against your stomach like a clingy housecat. His hair was disheveled, his armor partially unstrapped and crooked, his once pristine demeanor reduced to pure, chaotic neediness.

“Mmmnnnh… you smell nice,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by your shirt. “Why do you always smell so nice…?”

“Zero?” You said cautiously. “Are you… drunk?”

He tilted his head back to look up at you, hair falling into his glassy eyes, and pouted like a scolded child. “Maybe.”

“Zero,” you repeated, gently grabbing his shoulders, but he clung tighter.

“Nooo—don’t pull away. I need this. I need you.” His hands squeezed around your thighs like they were his lifeline. “You don’t understand… I did so well today. I sliced that dimensional beast clean through, and then I dodged the explosions and then I—”

He paused dramatically, holding up a single finger, swaying slightly before he continued. “—then I didn’t yell at anyone! Not once! Even though Elesis kept touching my sword when I told her not to.”

“That’s… actually impressive,” you admitted. “You usually snap by the third comment.”

“I know!!” he whined, shaking you slightly with his excitement. “That’s why you have to praise me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Praise. Me.” He buried his face back against you, voice muffled and pathetic. “Tell me I’m amazing. Tell me I’m the best. Say it with your real voice, not that pity-tone you use on Rufus when he gets pouty.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. “You’re begging for compliments?”

“YES,” he barked, then instantly softened into a groan. “Yes, yes, please, just—say I was good. Just this once. I don’t ask for much.”

He looked up at you again, eyes big and bleary, lips parted like he was just short of breath. The kind of look a knight might give their liege after winning a war and wanting nothing more than a warm embrace and a gold star. It was so out of character that it was nearly disarming.

“Alright, alright,” you murmured, running your fingers through his tousled silver hair. “You were incredible today. Brave, strong, and focused. You really didn’t lose your temper once, and your swordsmanship was sharp enough to impress even Ley.”

A choked sound escaped his throat. “Keep going…”

“You were reliable, thoughtful… You led us through that entire fight without faltering once. I was proud of you, Zero. You did good. So good.”

He let out the most contented sound you’d ever heard from him—half sigh, half whimper—and pressed his face more firmly into your stomach.

You lowered yourself to your knees beside him. His arms immediately wrapped around your waist, and he leaned into you like a plant toward sunlight. “Even when you don’t say anything,” you continued, cupping his jaw gently, “I always notice how hard you try.”

He looked at you for a long, breathy moment—vulnerable, hazy, red-faced. “Say it again. That you're proud of me."