I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, for the "just kidding" that doesn't come.

She lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug, her expression completely sincere despite the alcohol flushing her cheeks. "I'd actually be proud. Like, 'wow, my best friend is getting absolutely wrecked by the hottest man alive. Good for her. Living her best life. Ten out of ten, no notes.'"

I bury my face in my hands, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks despite my best efforts to remain composed.

"What?" she’s unrepentant. "I'm just saying⁠—"

"Please stop saying." I peek through my fingers, fixing her with a glare that lacks any real heat. "Immediately. This second. No more words from you."

She laughs, refilling both of our glasses with the last of the wine, the bottle making a gurgling sound as it empties. "Alright, fine. But when you do finally ride him," she lifts a finger, pointing it at me with mock sternness, "I expect a full debrief. Not necessarily with diagrams, but I wouldn't say no to some visual aids."

I groan, grabbing a dumpling from the takeout container and shoving it in my mouth to avoid having to respond. The food is lukewarm now, but I'm drunk enough that it still tastes amazing.

"Never happening."

Amanda sips her wine with an expression that says she doesn't believe me. "We'll see."

At this point, we're both deep in the wine haze.

That perfect, warm, everything is hilarious level of drunk where literally nothing makes sense but everything is the funniest shit we've ever heard. Where conversations loop and circle and drift, where time seems to stretch and compress in strange ways, where even the most mundane observations feel profound.

Amanda is digging through her bag, searching for something—I don't even know what, probably her lip gloss, because she's obsessed with reapplying it even when she's alone in her own apartment—when she suddenly starts rummaging through mine.

"Amanda, that is my purse." My words come out slightly slurred, my brain struggling to catch up with what my eyes are seeing.

She pauses. Looks up at me, her hand still deep in my handbag. Then bursts into hysterical laughter.

Like, full-body, wheezing, tears-in-her-eyes laughter that makes her double over, clutching her stomach as if she's just heard the funniest joke ever told.

I watch her with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

"Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?"

She can't even get the words out at first, still laughing as she pulls something small and familiar from my purse. Something packaged in a discreet, elegant box that immediately sobers me the hell up and a jolt of panic through my wine-addled brain.

Oh. Fuck.

"What do we have here?" she teases, waving the box in front of me like she just won the lottery, like she's discovered buried treasure in the depths of my purse.

I freeze.

My entire brain short-circuits.

Because oh my fucking God.

I completely forgot that was in there.

I was hiding it from Cal the first day he stayed over, stuffed it in my purse in a panic, and then never put it back in my nightstand. It's been sitting there, forgotten until this moment, a ticking time bomb just waiting to be discovered.

And now, here we are.

Amanda gasps, eyes wide and delighted by her discovery. "Wait. Is this what I think it is?"

My face goes up in flames, heat rushing to my cheeks so quickly I swear I can feel the blood vessels dilating. I grab for the box, but she yanks it away, laughing as she holds it out of my reach.

"Oh my God. Izzy."

I groan, covering my face with my hands, mortification washing over me in waves. "Amanda, do not open that."

She's already flipping open the box, completely ignoring my plea, her curiosity far outweighing any sense of boundaries or propriety.

"Why not?" she teases, peering inside with undisguised interest. "It's not like I don't have one of my own⁠—"

She whistles. I peek through my fingers, watching as she lifts the small, sleek, matte black vibrator from its packaging. It's not particularly large or intimidating, but it's clearly high-quality, clearly expensive.

The Premium Version of the App.

The one that syncs to a remote.

The one Caleb has full access to.

Fucking hell.

Amanda twirls it between her fingers, studying it with the critical eye of a connoisseur examining a fine wine. Her eyebrows lift in approval, her head tilting slightly as she takes in the details.

"Hmm. Yours looks different than mine."

"Amanda! Put it back!" I reach for it again, but she leans away, still examining it.

She’s completely at ease with the situation in a way I can't quite manage despite the alcohol in my system. "No, seriously. Look. The curve is slightly different. Yours is more... streamlined. Nicer, actually. The company must have upped their game since I bought mine."

"Amanda." My voice comes out strained, caught between embarrassment and reluctant amusement at her complete lack of shame.

She wiggles her brows suggestively. "You need to use this. ASAP. Tonight. Right now."

I snatch it from her hand, shoving it back in the box, face fully aflame. The velvet interior is soft against my fingertips.

"Okay, I will. But seriously, obviously not now. Not while you're here. Not while we're having a girls' night."

Amanda laughs, shrugging with exaggerated casualness. "Girl, you do what you wanna do." She lifts her wine glass in a mock toast. "I'm about to chug the rest of this and then go talk to Chad and pass out."

I snort, still trying to shove the box deeper into my purse like it might disappear entirely if I can just bury it under enough receipts and lip balms. "I still can’t believe you named your AI boyfriend Chad.”

“He is a fuckboy that does exactly what I tell him to do. Chad is the correct name for him. He sends good morning texts but doesn't expect a response, compliments me without sounding creepy, and never, ever asks me about my day unless I specifically tell him to."

I wheeze, laughing so hard I nearly fall off the couch, the tension of the moment broken by the sheer absurdity of her explanation.

She flips back on the TV show we'd been half-watching before our conversation derailed, finishes the rest of her drink in one impressive gulp, then leans over and presses a loud, exaggerated, very drunk kiss to my cheek. Her lipstick leaves a sticky mark that I can feel but don't bother to wipe away.

"I love you. You're my best friend. I'm proud of you. So happy. Just—so happy."

I laugh, patting her arm affectionately. For all her chaotic energy, all her boundary-pushing questions, all her inappropriate comments, Amanda is a good friend. The best, really. Loyal and supportive and exactly what I needed tonight.

"I love you too, you absolute mess."

She smiles sleepily, her eyes already starting to droop as the late hour and alcohol finally catch up with her.

Then, with zero warning, she stands up, wobbles dramatically like a newborn foal finding its legs, and disappears into her bedroom with surprising speed for someone so intoxicated.

A second later, I hear a loud thump.

Then a muffled “I'm fine!”

I shake my head, laughing to myself, gathering up some of the empty containers to take to the kitchen. The apartment is quiet now, the TV providing a soft background hum, the city lights twinkling through the large windows.

I stumble into Amanda's guestroom a few minutes later, giggling to myself as I close the door behind me. The room spins slightly as I move, a reminder of just how much wine I've consumed.