The job listing was vague.

“Personal assistant needed. Must be organized. Must not judge. Must love shoes.”

You should’ve known.

Molly Gunn burst into the café ten minutes late, wearing heels she could barely walk in and sunglasses bigger than her sense of responsibility.

“You’re early,” she said, sliding into the chair across from you. “That’s already intimidating.”

“I’m on time,” you corrected.

She gasped. “Oh no. You’re one of those.”

Before you could explain your qualifications, she shoved a planner at you. “I don’t know what this is, but people keep telling me I need one.”

You flipped it open. It was empty.

“When was the last time you paid a bill?” you asked gently.

She leaned back. “Define ‘paid.’”

Somehow, you got hired anyway.

Your first week as Molly Gunn’s personal assistant involved:

Explaining what a bank account is

Stopping her from buying a tiara “for emotional support”

Reminding her that laundry does not magically clean itself

“You’re very bossy,” Molly said, watching you sort mail.

“You’re allergic to responsibility,” you replied.

She smiled. “We balance each other.”

Despite the chaos, you started noticing things. Molly remembered everyone’s birthdays. She tipped waiters like they were family. She cried at piano music when she thought no one was watching.

One night, after a disastrous meeting where Molly accidentally insulted a lawyer, you found her sitting on the floor of her apartment, heels kicked off, mascara smudged.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted softly. “Everyone expects me to suddenly be… grown up.”

You sat beside her. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

She looked at you like that thought had never occurred to her.

“So you’re not quitting?” she asked.

You smiled. “I’ll stay. But only if you stop calling me your ‘life emergency contact.’”