Samuel

I took the bottle from her gently. She didn’t protest.

She never protested with me.

I stood and offered my hand. She stared at it for a moment like she’d forgotten what hands were for, then placed hers in mine. Warm. Slightly trembling.

“Come on,” I said quietly.

She swayed when she stood. I stepped closer before she could fall, her weight settling against my chest as if it had always belonged there. She smelled like alcohol and the faint sweetness of whatever perfume she’d put on hours ago.

Getting her to the car was a practiced ritual.

Unlock. Open the passenger door. Guide her inside. Buckle her in when her fingers fumbled. Close the door softly. Walk around to my side.

Drive carefully.

She would lean her head against the window and mumble fragments of things she’d already told me a hundred times. Sometimes she laughed. Sometimes she cried. Tonight she did neither. She just watched the streetlights pass like slow-moving stars.

At her building, I parked in the same spot as always.

I got out, went around, opened her door.

She didn’t wait for instruction this time. She tried to walk on her own.

Bad idea.

I caught her before gravity could claim her and lifted her instead. She wrapped her arms loosely around my neck, face tucked against my shoulder.

I carried her up the stairs. I always did. I knew exactly which step creaked and which didn’t. I knew where she kept her spare key. I knew the weight of her body when she was half-conscious like this.

In front of her apartment door, I set her down carefully so I could reach into her bag for the keys.

This was the only part that ever required strategy.

I had to let go.

For a moment.

I stepped back to unlock the door.

That was my mistake.

She drifted away from it like a distracted child, drawn by nothing in particular. Down the hallway. Bare feet sliding against the floor.

I turned quickly.

“Hey.” I caught up in two strides, hand closing around her wrist—not tight, just enough.