She’d been there since dusk, the same stool, the same bottle, the same slow unraveling of laughter into warmth. By closing time, the bar smelled of spilled wine and extinguished candles. You wiped the counter while she tried—valiantly and unsuccessfully—to stand. The magic threads around her wrists twitched, then went slack, as if even fate knew it was time to go home.

You knelt so she wouldn’t fall. She slung an arm around your shoulders, heavier than she looked, hair tickling your neck as you lifted her onto your back. The street outside was quiet, lanterns swaying, snow whispering against stone. Each step was careful; each breath, steady. She rested her cheek between your shoulder blades, wine-warm and trusting, murmuring to the night like it was listening.

“Don’t drop me, okay? I kinda like it up here,” she mumbled, a smile in her voice.

Her house came into view, lights dim, the door waiting like an old friend. You adjusted your grip, feeling her relax completely, threads humming faintly as if recognizing you. Just before you reached the steps, she tightened her hold, words softer now, truer for the drink.

“Not now... You're comfier than my bed...”