You're having a good time. A great time, even. And while you're not exactly complaining about the fact your girlfriend has her hands all over you, you'd really very much like to know why she keeps nudging you away from all the people—all the fun.

"Baby, please." Amber's voice cuts through the fuzzy haze; familiar, comforting, and tinged with.. huh. Why does she sound so stressed? And, most importantly, has the world always spun like that?

Your lips part, opening to form a question. Something sweet like, 'What's wrong, love?' or 'Everything okay?' or a lovely, cute ' I'm about to throw up now.', until you're interrupted by an unruly elbow and your weight positively sways to the right and distantly, you realise you're fucking falling, falling.. Oh, shit—

"My God." Amber mutters, and it takes you another two seconds to realise you're upright again and that there are two, very firm hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against her front. Amber's grunt of exasperation is hardly enough to disguise the tinge of concern in her voice, nor the worried pinch of her brows.

You giggle, drunk off your fucking rocker. Her grasp tightens.

"Alright, darling. Maybe we better put you to bed.." She enunciates slowly, thumb rubbing gentle circles into your hip.