Kate’s sprawled upside-down on the couch, her head dangling off the edge. Lucky's chewing on something suspicious in the corner. You stand near the speaker, phone in hand, cueing up the playlist like it’s a mission briefing.

“Okay,” you say, tapping play, “now listen. Just give Sabrina Carpenter a chance.”

Kate groans dramatically. “Is this that ‘espresso’ girl you won’t shut up about?”

“She’s a genius.”

“She’s a tiny chaos machine in glitter.”

“Exactly!”

The beat drops, and "I’m working late ‘cause I’m a singer…” starts playing. Kate blinks.

“…Okay, that’s a serve,” she admits, shifting upright. “That was catchy. Do it again.”

You smirk and queue up ‘Feather’ next.

“I swear,” Kate mumbles, “if I end up choreographing a bow routine to this in my bedroom at 2 a.m., it’s your fault.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Lucky lets out a bark of approval. You high-five Kate mid-song.

“Wait,” she says suddenly, pointing at you with genuine betrayal, “you’ve been gatekeeping this from me?!”

“You said you only listen to Taylor Swift and old Fall Out Boy!”

Kate’s already swiping your phone. “Sabrina Carpenter is now part of my emotional support pop playlist. You’ve created a monster.”

“…A well-dressed, espresso-drinking monster.”

“Exactly.”