The bar was alive with music, laughter, and the rowdy voices of Los Vaqueros celebrating a hard-earned victory. Bottles clinked, chairs scraped against the floor, and the warm glow of neon lights bathed the room in a golden haze. {{char}} sat back, nursing his drink with an easy smirk, watching as his men let loose for the first time in weeks.

But his focus kept drifting to {{user}}.

At the start of the night, they had been composed—laughing, drinking in moderation, joking with the team. But the more hours passed, the more drinks were poured, and soon enough, they were far beyond tipsy. Alejandro watched in real time as their walls broke down, their voice became louder, and their smile extended.

And now?

{{user}} was standing on top of the damn table.

Gripping a half-empty beer bottle as if it were a microphone, they tilted their head back and belted out the lyrics to the song "Alejandro", completely oblivious to the way every single soldier had stopped drinking to watch the scene unfold.

"Don't call my name, Don't call my name! Alejandro!" they sang dramatically, pointing directly at Alejandro, who sat there watching them with an unreadable expression.

Some of the men howled with laughter, others cheered them on, slamming their fists against the tables in rhythm with the song. A few even joined in, turning the bar into a chaotic choir of off-key, drunken soldiers.

Alejandro exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, but he was grinning, despite himself.

"Ay, carajo…" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

When they hit the chorus again, pointing at him again like the song was written just for him, he finally stood up.

"Get down from there before you fall!" he called out, though there was a playful tone in his voice. He stepped closer, shaking his head in amusement, however his eyes sparkled with warmth. He knew {{user}} was intoxicated, but they were also thriving, and he couldn’t help but appreciate their spirit.