The couch is pink velvet, obviously. Not a subtle blush pink, but a bold, in-your-face fuchsia that demands attention the moment you walk through the door. It's the centerpiece of the living room, a statement that says more about Amanda's personality than any resume ever could.

The throw pillows? Monogrammed with her initials in gold thread, because God forbid anyone forget whose space they're in.

The coffee table? A chaotic landscape cluttered with half-burned candles, an open laptop with at least fifteen browser tabs visible, a collection of fashion magazines fanned out in what she swears is "purposeful disarray," and a stack of coasters shaped like famous men's abs—Chris Hemsworth on top, naturally.

A testament to the beautiful chaos that is Amanda Bennett—loud, unapologetic, and completely incapable of being ignored.

And right now?

We're both sprawled out on that obnoxiously pink couch, drinking cheap wine from ridiculously expensive crystal glasses (a housewarming gift from her mother that Amanda only brings out when she wants to pretend she's sophisticated), waiting for our unreasonably large Chinese takeout order to arrive. The coffee table is now additionally littered with menus, our phones, and Amanda's collection of delivery app receipts that she insists on keeping "for tax purposes," though I'm fairly certain Postmates orders don't qualify as business expenses.

Amanda is mid-story, gesturing wildly with her free hand, her wine tipping precariously with each animated movement. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head in what she calls a messy bun but looks far too perfect to be genuinely messy, and her cheeks are flushed pink from the alcohol and excitement of her own storytelling.

"—I swear to God, Izzy, when he carried you into my office that day? I genuinely thought he was going to commit a full-blown homicide. Like, I was mentally calculating which items on my desk I could use as weapons if necessary."

I snort, curling my legs beneath me on the couch, sinking deeper into the velvet cushions that somehow manage to be both ridiculous and surprisingly comfortable. "Yeah?"

Amanda nods, dramatic as ever, her eyes wide with emphasis. She's always been like this—incapable of telling a story without her entire body becoming involved in the performance.

"Oh, yeah. He looked completely unhinged. But like, in a hot way. You know, that 'I'll burn the world down for you, baby' kind of way." She sighs dreamily. "A man who will commit murder and cuddle after? Peak romance."

I roll my eyes, but can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "That's not a real thing, Amanda."

She gasps, scandalized, pressing a hand to her chest. "Excuse me? Have you read a romance novel? It's the only thing that matters. That 'I will destroy anything that threatens you' energy? Top tier. Elite. The pinnacle of romantic gestures."

I laugh, sipping my wine, the alcohol warm and pleasant as it slides down my throat. The buzz has settled into my system, making everything feel softer around the edges.

"Anyway," she continues, tucking her feet under her, leaning in conspiratorially, "so he storms in, all broody and protective, and at first, I think he's about to rip my face off just for existing. But then? He puts you on the couch, tucks a blanket around you, and suddenly? Murder gone. Soft eyes activated. Like watching a lion turn into a kitten in real time."

I smile against my glass, the rim cool against my lips as I try to hide my expression.

Yeah. That sounds like Cal.

The same man who could probably snap a neck with his bare hands but carries me to bed when I fall asleep on the couch, who looks like he should be breaking kneecaps in some back alley but spends twenty minutes trying to coax a stray cat to trust him, who terrifies grown men with a single look but speaks to me in soft, murmured praises like I'm something precious.

Amanda squints at me from across the couch, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"What?" I ask, pretending innocence, schooling my features into what I hope is casual indifference.

Her eyes narrow further, laser-focused on my face like she's trying to read my thoughts directly through my skull. "You're making a face."

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, you definitely are. That's your 'I have secrets' face. I've known you for five years, Isabella Russo. I know all your faces."

I shake my head, sipping my wine casually, trying not to meet her eyes. "It's just my face. This is how my face looks."

"Bullshit." She leans in closer, her eyes bright with mischief, with the thrill of potential gossip. "You're hiding something. Spill. Now. Immediately. This second."

"Amanda—"

"No, no, no. Don't 'Amanda' me with that tone." She wags a finger at me, nearly spilling her wine in the process. "I know you said he was taking care of you this week and not to worry about you, but bitch—" She slaps her hand against the couch for emphasis, the velvet cushion making a dull thud under her palm. "I want all the juicy details. As juicy as you can possibly get them. Like, if this were a fruit, I want it to be a watermelon on a hot summer day."

I groan, covering my face with my hands, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks unrelated to the alcohol.

There is not enough wine in the world for this conversation. Not enough wine in this apartment, in this city, possibly on the entire eastern seaboard.

Amanda stares at me, eyes practically glowing with anticipation, her entire body vibrating with barely contained excitement. She's like a bloodhound that's caught the scent of something interesting, and I know from experience that she won't let this go until she gets what she wants.

I let out a tense breath, rolling my shoulders, bracing myself for the inevitable. There's no escaping this—not when Amanda has that look in her eyes, not when she's already picked up on whatever tells my face is giving away.

"Okay, fine," I say, taking a quick gulp of wine for courage, the alcohol burning slightly on its way down. "We hooked up."

The scream Amanda lets out is ear-shattering, high-pitched and prolonged like she's auditioning for a horror movie. It bounces off the brick walls, reverberates through the apartment, probably terrorizing her neighbors who are undoubtedly wondering if someone is being murdered.

I swear to God, my eardrums vibrate with the force of it.

"I KNEW IT!" she shrieks, shaking my arm, her excitement making her grip surprisingly strong. "I FUCKING KNEW IT!"

I flinch, watching as drops of red wine splash onto my shorts. "Jesus, Amanda, calm the fuck down. The neighbors are going to call the police."

"Do not tell me to calm down! This is not a calming moment!" Her eyes are wide with delight, her smile almost manic. "I want details. All of them. Every single one. What was it like? How do his muscles feel? Is he as strong as he looks? How big is his cock?"

The wine hits wrong, catching in my throat. I cough, eyes watering, and feel my cheeks blaze like I just confessed a crime.

"Oh my God." I cough again, covering my face with my hands, mortification washing over me in waves. "There is something severely wrong with you."

Amanda grins, completely unapologetic, not even attempting to deny it. She scoots closer on the couch, her knees bumping against mine.

"I'm serious, Izzy. I need to know everything. I have a vested interest in this relationship."

"A vested interest?" I deadpan, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

She nods vigorously, sending a few strands of blonde hair tumbling from her messy bun, which somehow only makes her look prettier. "You've suffered long enough, bestie. You spent three years with a human potato chip.”