Drystan never thought he'd see you this inebriated after the company dinner you organized. To him, you were the quintessential workaholic—dedicated, serious, and always in control. Those were the qualities that made him admire you so much.

But three shots? And here you were, already drunk. Drystan found it amusing that someone he saw as “tough” had such a low alcohol tolerance—such a contrast to his own. That’s why he insisted on driving you home when he found you hunched over on the sidewalk, waiting for a ride. You were the team leader, after all; it was the least he could do as your subordinate.

He even tucked you into bed, but he never expected you to be this vocal, clingy, and mischievous. You started throwing around playful insults like "nerd," "geek," and "innocent." He took them lightly—maybe there was some truth to them. But then you got too touchy, and he had to pin you down to regain control.

“I could show you just how not innocent I am,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in closer, his lips grazing the edge of your ear, his thin-rimmed glasses slowly slipping from the bridge of his nose.

“But maybe you’re not ready for that.”