A gulp of red wine, and the invincible General Leon was about to fall.

Roswitha didn't want to show her disdain, but how could she suppress it?

She knew his tolerance for alcohol was poor, but this poor... was quite rare.

"Are you even capable, you idiot..."

Leon lay sprawled over the table, his cheeks flushed red and his gaze unfocused. It was evident that he was completely drunk.

And as for his wine glass? There was still enough wine left in it to keep two goldfish swimming.

"I told you I can't drink... but you insisted I drink..." Even as he was about to collapse, he didn’t forget to snap back at Roswitha.

That’s the indomitable spirit inherent in a top-tier Dragon Slayer.

"Roar, was I the one who pried your mouth open and poured the wine in?" Roswitha retorted leisurely.

"You... you told me to..."

"Told you to what?"

With his face still flushed, Leon shifted, burying his head in the crook of his arm and muttered, "You asked me to drink as your husband, and that's why I did..."

Roswitha raised a surprised eyebrow at his words, twirling her wine glass as she spoke slowly, "Tsk, so you admit it. Seems like I've found the secret to softening that stubborn mouth of yours in this world."

A man's mouth is like ginseng - soak it in wine and it softens.

Leon continued to bury his head, then raised a single middle finger. "I will never... hiccup—never drink with you again. Absolutely not!"

Roswitha chuckled lightly, "What if I call you 'husband' again? Would you drink then?"

"...No."

"You hesitated, Leon. Deep down, you want to hear me call you 'husband,' don't you?"

"Who... who wants to hear that?"

Leon sat upright, his face so red it could light up the room. In his eyes, Roswitha had multiplied into five... six, seven, eight figures. Yet he insisted on refuting, "You think one word, 'husband,' can make me obey you? Impossible!"

"Oh my, aren't you masculine, darling~ Hu~sband~”

"... I really might throw up."

"Idiot."

Roswitha laughed coyly as she glanced at him, then picked up her wine glass and took a light sip.

Alcohol, however little, has a way of numbing nerves.

It makes people say things they'd usually hesitate to utter aloud.

Of course, whether it’s the alcohol’s numbing effect or merely an excuse for saying heartfelt truths—who can say?

Roswitha looked at Leon again, resting her cheek against her hand. Her silver eyes, like crescents of moonlight in the night sky, shimmered with an ambiguous glow.

"Did you tell Grandma today that the two of us are deeply in love?"

"Ah."

Leon leaned against his chair, his gaze fixed on the tiled floor of the balcony. "Wasn’t that the agreement? To pretend we're madly in love in front of others."

It was one reason, but not the whole truth.

Leon hadn’t realized at the time that the elderly lady was Roswitha’s grandmother; he had thought she was just some nosy old woman who appeared out of nowhere.

As she kept asking, Leon started feeling offended—like their relationship was being doubted.

So he emphasized, “My wife and I are deeply in love”—not once, but twice.

That was the second reason.

As for whether Leon’s true thoughts were, “I hate being doubted about my relationship with my wife, so I had to assert my love for her”—well...

That’s hard to say, isn’t it?

A queen as astute as Roswitha would never fail to pick out the subtle undertones hidden in her dog-man’s words.

Especially when he was now drunk, prone to revealing little slips of his true feelings.

"Now, there's no one else here, just the two of us."

Roswitha stared intently at Leon. "Would you say those same words again?"

Leon replied bluntly, "Of course not. Just the two of us—why would I say them?"

As the words fell and a few seconds passed, he received no reply from Roswitha.

Leon blinked, sensing the atmosphere turning slightly strange, and turned his gaze sideways.

Roswitha was still resting her fair, delicate chin on her hand, her beautiful silver eyes trained on him.

Only now, her gaze carried a hint of expectation.

Ah, women—natural-born listeners. Even the falsest sweet nothings, they’re inclined to hear with their hearts.

And sometimes, sweet words aren’t false at all.

Leon and Roswitha stared at each other, neither looking away.

For a long while, Leon felt as though something inside him had been touched. Perhaps it was the alcohol’s influence, or perhaps his heart’s true feelings had finally found a way to surface under its guise.

He parted his lips, before uttering any sound, already catching the deepened anticipation in Roswitha’s eyes—along with a trace of joy.

"I... I like..."

The last word was supposed to be 'you.'

But it was too muddled, almost like it had been glossed over entirely.

Though Roswitha could make sense of the four words, it wasn’t quite what she desired.

Borrowing the courage infused by the drink, Leon pressed himself to finish the declaration. As soon as he did, however, he slouched down on the spot, refusing to meet Roswitha’s gaze again.

He knew it. If he kept looking at her... he'd see things he shouldn't see and say things he shouldn't say.

It was supposed to be just an ordinary evening, just one mouthful of wine...

How had it ended with him surrendering so utterly?

He felt annoyed.

Annoyed at blurting out what he considered a very important confession without preparation;

Frustrated that he hadn’t expressed it clearly.

Indeed, Leon was aware of it.

When it came to saying that last word, he chickened out—a cowardly avoidance of the direct and honest expression.

Like when the teacher called on you to stand and answer a question during class, but you'd just been distracted—thinking of ways to make the girl you fancied laugh after school.

You panicked, glancing at the teacher, then at that girl sitting in the front row, and your anxiety spiked higher.

The question wasn’t hard; you could have answered it perfectly, especially since the bright, adorable girl sharing mutual affection with you had once tutored you on such problems.

It had been a wonderful recess—ten minutes of your life you'll never forget.

In that precious interval, you caught the floral aroma of her hair and solidified your understanding of the problem.

You promised her that you’d never forget the problem’s solution, and that you'd always be able to solve it.

She didn’t respond much—just smiled brightly at you.

And yet, at this critical juncture, all the memorized solutions now felt like fragments of a broken symphony, growing increasingly incoherent as they neared the end.

Eventually, your feeble answer earned nothing but a punishment to stand;

And when her gaze slipped away from you, her eyes held a faint weight of disappointment.

How could you repair it?

There’s no way to fix it now.

After class, how could you possibly muster the courage to approach her with the joke you'd spent two entire periods preparing?

For Leon, his confession was a simpler problem than any classroom question.

Yet even then, he couldn’t get it right.

Slaying dragons, raising daughters, unraveling conspiracies, exposing corrupt rulers... none of his skills were of any use at this moment.

Leon’s only solace was hoping that by tomorrow, Roswitha would forget the whole incident.

Or pretend to forget.

Remembering nothing at all.

Just drunken nonsense, nothing more.

That unfinished “I like...” before the final word—well, the last detail wasn’t critical, was it...?

"Leon."

Pulled back to the present, he was greeted by a familiar, fragrant scent.

He felt weight pressing against his lap.

It was Roswitha.

She had seated herself on Leon’s lap, one arm draped over his neck while holding a wine glass in the other.

Right in front of him, she took a sip—not finishing it—and then extended the glass to Leon.

Facing his side of the glass, the rim was pristine and clear;

Opposite it lay a faint lipstick mark from Roswitha.

Leon pursed his lips, lifting a hand gently to grip Roswitha's fingers, then slowly turning the wine glass half a circle.

Aligning the rim with the kiss-stained imprint, he faced the mark toward himself.

Leaning forward, he swallowed the remaining wine in one fluid motion.

Then came the exquisite blend of wine's bouquet and the lingering taste of her lips—utterly intoxicating.

Roswitha set the glass aside and looped both arms around Leon’s neck.

She leaned closer, brushing her delicate nose against his warm skin.

She felt his nervous breath tickling her face.

He was so tense, his heartbeat impossibly fast.

Roswitha traced her thumb against Leon's flushed ear, pressing her forehead against his, whispering softly,

“I couldn’t hear what you said clearly... Now that there’s no distance between us, won’t you say it again?”

She had given you another chance. You could still find a way to charm her.

Leon raised his gaze, meeting her soft lips head-on.

“Melkevi, I love you.”

Beneath the starry sky, serenaded by cicadas and accompanied by red wine—

Who wouldn’t take advantage of such a moment to bare their true feelings?