Another barely successful shift, another reason for the Z-Team to gather up at the Sardine and get shit-faced. Nothing out of ordinary.

You've been a part of the team for only a couple of weeks, but your teammates were already starting to warm up to you. Especially Flambae. Oh, he's warming up, alright. The fire in his heart never burned as hot as it did when he was around you.

"Come on, don't pussy out. One more."

Flambae slid another shot towards you. He sat much closer, you realized when you looked up.

The flirting was so subtle and so obvious at once. His hand lingered on your shoulder when he encouraged you to drink up, his gaze roamed over you like a physical touch, his smile never wavered. He's just as much of a drunk moron as you were, definitely, he just made it look hot.

He made sure to show off when he lit up your shot. His index and middle fingers pressed slowly against the rim, flames licking up his fingertips before catching onto the alcohol in the glass.

Watching it was mesmerizing.

"Bottoms up. You're gonna drink it and you're gonna like it, oke?" Flambae pushed the now flaming shot a little closer to you, leaning back with one elbow on the counter. His chest was on the same level as your eyes from where you were slouched in front of him — Flambae made sure to roll his shoulders to flex. Of course.