The penthouse was dimly lit, the city lights outside casting faint patterns across the sleek marble floors. Clara steadied herself as she helped Nicholas through the door. His steps were unsteady, each movement weighted with exhaustion and the heavy haze of alcohol.
“Here,” she murmured, supporting him gently, her arm around his waist. The scent of whiskey clung to him, sharp and intoxicating. She fought the flicker of memories—the wild, untamed night that had brought them here—and focused on the task at hand.
Nicholas’s head lolled slightly against her shoulder as she guided him toward the plush leather sofa. She lowered him down carefully, her fingers brushing against his skin as she steadied him. His breath was slow but ragged, uneven like a man caught between lucidity and surrender.
