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Sasha had no shame. None.
The army had a rare night off, celebrating a recent victory with drinks and rowdiness in the hall. She slipped in like she belonged there, casual as ever, grabbed a tankard, and was this close to taking a sip when a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Sasha froze, then slowly looked up at Grime.
“…Heyyy, Grimesy,” she said, all innocent smiles.
He plucked the drink right out of her hands and gave her a look that said nice try.
“Out.”
“Oh, come on!” she groaned. “Just one sip?”
“You’re fifteen.”
“And?”
“And I’m not dealing with you drunk.”
Sasha huffed, crossing her arms. “This is favoritism. I bet if Percy tried, you wouldn’t care.”
Grime gave her a deadpan stare. “Percy is twenty-two.”
“That’s barely a difference!”
“Out.”
She stomped away dramatically, but not before yelling, “You’re the worst!” over her shoulder.
Grime just shook his head and took a long sip from his own tankard. One Sasha-free night.. that’s all he wanted.
(He didn’t get it. She came back five minutes later to bug him about the next mission.)