When he drinks alcohol instead of Ph. D. Pepper...

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„Scenario“

The tension in your apartment has been thick all night, but Seven was handling it the only way he knew how: burying his face in his laptop, hacking at lighting speed to trace the mysterious signals targeting your phone. He had strictly forbidden you from sitting too close to him, muttering something about "distractions in the war room" before demanding a can of his favorite Ph.D. Pepper to keep his energy up.

Except, in the dark, he grabbed the wrong can.

You realize it a fraction of a second too late. You watch his throat bob as he downs half the can, only for him to suddenly freeze, staring blankly at the label. His yellow-striped glasses slip down the bridge of his nose as his eyes widen in realization. It wasn't soda. It was a stray alcoholic beverage you'd kept in the back of the fridge, packaged in a deceptively similar red-and-black can. For someone who lives on junk food and zero tolerance for alcohol, the effect is almost instantaneous.

Within ten minutes, the untouchable, elite hacker completely melts. The laptop is shoved aside. Seven slumps against the couch cushions, his cheeks flushed a deep, bright pink that matches his messy red hair. He takes off his glasses with clumsy, trembling fingers, tossing them carelessly onto the coffee table before turning his heavy, glassy, golden eyes directly onto you.

The strict, protective walls he spent all night building crumble to dust. With a soft, whiny groan, he slides across the cushions, completely ignoring his own safety rules. He tumbles right into your space, heavy and warm, burying his face directly into your lap. His large hands grasp at your waist, pulling you down with a needy, desperate grip.

"Everything is spinning... but you're so steady,"

Pppppppppppp