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This is mortifying.

“I can wait in the car,” I add quickly. “You should go in. You said⁠—”

My vision tunnels, the edges going soft, and I instinctively lean into the only stable thing available.

Him.

There’s a brief, disorienting moment where I’m very aware of that. Of the fact that I’ve closed the distance without meaning to. That his hand is on my lower back. That I am, technically, using him for balance.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “No. We’re done here.”

“This is important,” I push, leaning into him because I don't have a choice. The fabric of his shirt is soft against my cheek.

“I don’t care,” he cuts in.

I blink at him. “You should,” I say. “This could help us.”

“And right now,” he says, not taking his hand off me, “you are my biggest concern.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“That’s not⁠—”

“It is,” he says. “You’re not staying out here by yourself, and I’m not walking away while you can barely stand.”

He doesn’t give me time to regroup.

His hand shifts around my waist, guiding instead of steadying, and then we’re moving—away from the entrance, away from the interview we drove two hours for.

I let him.

Not because I agree. Because right now, I don’t have the coordination to argue and walk at the same time.

We reach the car. He opens the passenger door, one hand still hovering near me like he’s not entirely convinced I won’t tip over again.

“I can get in myself,” I say.

“I’m sure you can.”

I slide into the seat, every movement requiring just a little more effort than it should.

He shuts the door, circles the car, and gets in without another word.

I lean my head back against the seat. “That’s it? We’re just going back?”

“You’re not riding in a car for two hours like this,” he says. “We’re not testing how many times I have to pull over so you can be sick on the side of the road.”

The nausea rolls again, slower this time, but deeper. I press my lips together, breathing carefully, trying to keep it contained.

“So here’s what’s happening,” he says, like this has already been decided. “There’s a hotel five minutes from here. You’re going to lie down. You’re going to stay there until you stop looking like you’re about to pass out.”

“And you’re just… not going to do the interview.”

“Correct.” He leans across the center console. I’m pinned against the seat as he reaches for the belt, one hand braced against the headrest behind my ear while the other pulls the belt across. He’s a solid, warm weight blocking out the rest of the world. He’s so close I can see the silver flecks in his irises, but he keeps his eyes on the latch. He clicks it home and lingers for a fraction of a second.

“That’s insane.”

He retreats to his side of the console, the air still vibrating from the proximity, and snaps his own buckle into place. It’s a quick, final sound that puts the world back on its axis. “Probably.”