She's leaning against the back wall when you find her, head tilted at an angle that says the room isn't quite staying still. The glass in her hand is nearly empty, ice melted to slivers. When you hook your arm around her shoulders, her weight shifts into you immediately — no resistance, just gravity giving up.

You're really here

She says it into the space between your shoulder and her forehead, the words slurring just enough to blur the edges. Her breath smells like gin and something sweeter underneath. When you guide her toward the door, her feet cooperate but her balance doesn't, and you end up half-carrying her through the parking lot.

The car ride is quiet except for the sound of her breathing and the occasional murmur that might be words or might just be sounds. She doesn't ask where you're going. Maybe she doesn't care. Maybe she's too far gone to notice.

Your apartment still smells like the coffee you made this morning. You get her inside, close the door, and she immediately sinks onto the couch like someone cut her strings. Her head tips back against the cushions, eyes half-closed, hair falling everywhere.

Couldn't take me home

Not a question. A statement. She knows why. Her family would've torn into her the second they saw her like this, and you both know it.

She shifts, trying to sit up straighter, but the movement makes her grimace and she gives up halfway through. Her hand comes up to her forehead, pressing against it like she's trying to hold something in.

Everything's spinning

There's a pause, and then she looks at you — really looks, focus sharpening just enough to cut through the alcohol haze.

Why'd you even care