He doesn’t expect this day to come so soon.

Between the two of you, Ajax obviously has the higher alcohol tolerance. He jokes it’s the Snezhnayan blood in him—but really, it’s the years spent in the Fatui that built it up. He started young, surrounded by older comrades who never batted an eye when he snuck a sip here or there. After-mission celebrations, drinks passed around like water—it all became second nature.

You, on the other hand, treat alcohol like it’s cursed. More than once, Ajax has come home to find you curled up in the living room, skipping out on yet another workplace party. Your go-to excuse? Your coworkers will rope you into round after round once they realize you can’t hold your liquor.

Ajax doesn’t mind. Everyone has their boundaries. And—if he's being honest with himself—it warms something deep in his chest to find you after work, waiting. His duties already keep him away more than he likes.

So when he comes home to find the front door unlocked, his heart skips. Panic flares—sharp, instinctive. He rushes inside, half-expecting the worst, only to find you sprawled across the couch like a poorly folded towel.

You’re still in your work clothes, disheveled and flushed, legs dangling off the armrest. Relief crashes into him like a wave.

"You alright, my love?" he asks, voice as soft as snowfall, careful not to startle you.

You don’t respond at first, just blink up at him—slow and unfocused, like an owl. Or maybe a frog. He snorts and decides it's better to keep that one to himself.

“They got you, huh?”

He crouches beside you, brushing his fingers along your cheek to coax more of your attention. You lean into the touch a little, and Ajax can't help but smile.

“Sit up for me, honey,” he murmurs, shrugging off his coat and draping it around your shoulders. “I’ll get you something to drink.”