I don’t rush.

I never do. Not in meetings, not in arguments, not even now—with her weight warm and unbalanced against my shoulder, laughing like the world hasn’t taught her consequences yet.

The hallway smells faintly of hotel soap and spilled champagne. Her shoes dangle from my hand, swinging with each step, tapping lightly against my leg like they’re keeping time to a song only she hears. She’s heavier than she thinks—not in body, but in presence. She always has been.

“Careful,” she says, far too amused for someone who can barely walk. “You drop me, you’re dead.”

I tighten my grip instead of answering. My jaw aches. I’ve been clenching it since I found her at the bar, smiling too brightly, cheeks flushed, telling a stranger that her husband was terrible but useful. She hadn’t seen me then. She sees me now—at least, she thinks she does.

Her arm slides around my neck, clumsy and affectionate. Intimate in a way she’d never dare while sober.

“You’re mad,” she sings softly.

“Yes,” I say, because lying has never been my weakness.

She hums, pleased. “Good. I was worried you didn’t feel things anymore.”

That lands deeper than it should.

I stop outside our door, breath steady, pulse not. For a moment, I consider putting her down, letting her stand on her own, letting her wobble and apologize and pretend tomorrow will fix this. But she shifts, presses her forehead briefly into my shoulder, and sighs like she trusts me with the mess she’s made of herself.

I open the door.

Inside, the lights are low. Quiet. Controlled. The way I like things.

She laughs again, softer this time. “You always catch me,” she murmurs, half-asleep, half-honest.

I don’t correct her.

I carry her in anyway.