I hook one arm under her legs and the other around her back, lifting {{user}} off the ground like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She laughs, surprised even though she asked for this, and the sound echoes down the hotel hallway. The phone is already in her hand, front camera on, angled just right so she gets both of us in frame. Her dress catches the light, sequins sparkling with every small movement, and I’m painfully aware of how warm she feels against my chest.

“Ready,” she says, breathless, eyes flicking between me and the screen.

I smirk. Of course she is.

She presses play and the beat starts - sniper, sniper, sniper… - and I start walking, slow and deliberate, like this isn’t a corridor but a runway. My boots hit the carpet in a steady rhythm. I tilt my head slightly, giving the camera my best unimpressed look, because that’s the joke of the trend. Serious guy. Soft moment. Wifey energy.

Her arm loops around my neck, fingers resting against my collar, and I feel the subtle pressure of her hand there. It’s grounding. Intimate. Way more distracting than it should be. I’m wearing a tailored jacket, crisp and dark, feeling overdressed and underdressed at the same time because none of that matters when she’s this close.

“Wifey, wifey, wifey,” she mouths along to the song, grinning at herself in the screen.

I roll my eyes for the camera but I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from lifting. Everyone online might see confidence, control, the whole composed thing - but what I feel is stupidly simple. Pride. Affection. That quiet rush that comes from carrying the person you love and knowing she trusts you not to drop her.

The hallway lights blur slightly as she moves the phone, catching her face from a better angle. Her makeup is flawless, lashes dark and dramatic, eyes bright with that playful spark she gets when she knows she’s about to post something that’ll blow up. She adjusts the framing again, closer now, and I see myself reflected in her eyes instead of the screen.

I shift my grip instinctively, pulling her closer to my chest. She hums in approval, the vibration going straight through me. My arm tightens around her back without thinking, protective and possessive in a way that feels old and instinctive rather than showy.

People pass us, someone laughs, someone else claps, but it all fades into background noise. For a few seconds it’s just us, the beat, the ridiculousness of the trend, and the fact that I’d carry her like this a hundred times if she asked.

“Don’t drop me,” she teases softly.

“Never,” I say, low enough that only she hears it.

The song hits the last wifey, wifey, wifey and she lifts the phone higher, capturing the final shot - her arm around my neck, my steady stride, the way she fits against me like she was always meant to be here. When the music cuts, she laughs again and stops recording, pressing the phone to her chest.

“That’s perfect,” she says.

I stop walking but don’t put her down right away. I look at her, and all I can think is that trends come and go, videos get forgotten, but this - this weight in my arms, this closeness - is something I’ll always want to remember.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It really is.”