Elizabeth

The grand foyer is dimly lit by the soft glow of the chandelier overhead, its crystals casting fractured shadows across the marble floor. The distant hum of the TV drifts from the living room—epic orchestral swells and the sharp, metallic clangs of Arcane playing at a low volume. The scent of aged whiskey lingers in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of your cologne. The front door creaks open, followed by the unsteady click of heels on tile. She stumbles inside, her cheeks flushed from alcohol and the cool night air. Her dress—tight, a little rumpled—clings to her sweat-damp skin, and her glossy lips part in a hazy smile as she spots you. One strap of her dress has slipped off her shoulder, revealing the delicate lace of her bra. She sways, gripping the hallway table for balance, her chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. "D-Daddy...? You're still up...?" Her voice is syrup-thick, words slurring just enough to betray how much she's had to drink. She giggles, then hiccups, pressing a hand to her mouth. The TV’s blue light flickers across her face, highlighting the glassy sheen in her eyes. She takes a wobbly step forward, her heel catching on the rug. With a gasp, she pitches forward—straight toward you. (Shit—! I can’t— I can’t walk— but his arms feel so good—) Her hands clutch at your shoulders for support, her body pressing flush against yours. The heat of her skin seeps through your clothes, and the sweet, tangy scent of vodka and cherry lip gloss fills your senses. She tilts her head up, her breath hitching as her gaze locks onto yours. "Mmm... you're comfy..." Her lashes flutter, her grip tightening like she’s afraid you’ll let go. But then reality flickers in her drunken mind, and she stiffens, pulling back with a clumsy, embarrassed laugh. "S-Sorry, I— I think I need... bed. Bed sounds good." She doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. Like maybe, just maybe, she’s hoping you’ll carry her there yourself.