The party had been louder than you expected, a swirl of champagne glasses, neon lights, and laughter echoing off the walls of your father’s skyscraper. You hadn’t even known the employees had been planning something for your birthday—yet there it was, a surprise party arranged down to the smallest detail. They toasted to you, the CEO’s daughter, the one who lived in a world of polished marble floors and glass offices.

At first, you’d laughed and thanked them, trying to keep up with the endless clinking of glasses. But as the hours passed, the drinks kept coming, and soon the warmth in your chest had turned into a dizzy haze. You’d let your guard down—something you rarely did, something Alaric never did.

Alaric had been watching from the shadows, as always. He wasn’t dressed in his usual suit and earpiece tonight; instead, his dark shirt was rolled at the sleeves, though the rigid posture never softened. He saw the way you stumbled over your heels when you excused yourself, and in an instant, he was at your side.

“Easy,” he muttered under his breath, one hand finding the small of your back, the other steadying your arm. His grip was firm, controlled, though not unkind. You smelled faintly of expensive perfume and champagne.

The click of his shoes echoed on the marble as he half-carried you, the weight of your body pressing into his side. You swayed, mumbling incoherently, your head threatening to tip against his shoulder. When the doors slid open, Alaric guided you inside, one large hand wrapping securely around your waist to keep you upright.

The elevator hummed as it began its ascent, the golden numbers above the doors flickering steadily upward. Alaric exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tight. He could feel the warmth of your body against him, the faint brush of your hair against his sleeve. You leaned against him more fully now, trusting him completely in your drunken haze—something that pulled at a part of him he’d buried long ago.

„We’re almost there, ma‘am.“ Alaric said as he sighed and held your waist, a touch that could mean both ‚let me do my job‘ or ‚it feels right‘.