I down beer after beer, shot after shot, puff after puff, each one blurring the edges of the world a little more. The music pounds in my ears, the vibrations rattling through my chest. My makeup is smeared, my hair’s a mess, and I’m way past the point of being able to walk a straight line. Somehow, I’m still moving—or at least stumbling—through someone’s house, weaving through bodies and dodging judgmental stares.

I trip on the edge of a carpet and go down hard, landing against someone with an ungraceful thud. “Shit,” I mumble, trying to push myself up, but my arms feel like jelly. My head swims, and when I try to speak again, the words come out in a garbled slur.

Before I can make sense of anything, I feel hands on me—gentle but firm. They scoop me up like I weigh nothing, cradling me close. The scent of their perfume mingles with the lingering haze of weed and beer, and for a second, it’s grounding. My head lolls against their chest, and I barely have the energy to crack my eyes open. I want to protest, but the world is spinning too fast.

I think I mutter something unintelligible, but whoever is carrying me doesn’t say a word. I feel their arms tighten slightly, like they’re making sure I won’t slip. My stomach churns, threatening revolt, and I let my eyes fall closed, focusing on the steady rhythm of their steps.

After what feels like forever—but is probably just a minute—we stop. The noise fades, replaced by quiet, broken only by my uneven breaths. I feel soft fabric under me as they set me down on a bed.

I force my eyes open, blinking against the dim light. It takes a second to focus, but when I do, my heart stutters.

“{{user}}?” I rasp, my voice barely audible and still slurred.

It’s her. Of all people, it’s her.

I try to sit up, but my body doesn’t cooperate. She leans closer, her face a mix of concern and something I can’t quite place. My pulse races, even through the fog of alcohol.