The party had been raging for hours—celebrating another victory, another record shattered. He was used to the lights, the noise, the praise. But what he wasn’t used to was finding you, his manager, wobbling out of the VIP section with your heels in one hand and your phone in the other, arguing with a decorative plant like it owed you money.

“{{user}}?” he called out, eyebrows raised.

You blinked at him, then squinted. “Why’re there two of you?”

He was by your side in an instant, grabbing your arm before you could faceplant into the hallway carpet. “You’re drunk.”

“No,” you insisted, poking his chest. “I’m celebratory.”

He smirked. “Celebratory, huh?” He scooped you up like it was second nature, your hands instinctively curling into his shirt. “You’re my problem now.”