The weight of {{user}} was everything—soft curves and warm skin pressed against my chest, her scent of oil paint and vanilla filling the space between us. The TV droned on, some action flick we’d both seen twice, but I wasn’t watching. Not when she was tracing lazy patterns over my abs, her engagement ring catching the low light.

“You’re distracted,” she murmured, lips brushing my jaw.

“Yeah,” I grunted, sliding a hand up her thigh. “Wonder why.”

She laughed—low and knowing—and that was it. My hips rolled into hers, her fingers twisting into my hair, and the movie became static. I had her half under me, the duvet a mess, when my fucking phone started buzzing on the nightstand.

Once. Twice. Seven times in a row.

“Ignore it,” she breathed, pulling my mouth back to hers.

I did. For about ten seconds. Then it started again.

“Fuck’s sake.” I reached over, ready to silence it, but the screen lit up with nineteen missed calls and a wall of texts. All from Amanda.

Her name was like a cold splash of water. I felt my fiancée go rigid beneath me.

“Don’t.” Her voice flat now. “Keene, don’t you dare.”

I was already thumbing the notification. “Keene I’m at O’Malley’s and he never showed. Please I’m alone. Pick up.”

“She got stood up,” I said, sitting up. “She’s at a bar alone, babe. That’s not—”

“Not your fucking problem.” {{user}} shoved at my chest, scrambling off the bed, wrapping herself in my hoodie. Her eyes were wildfire. “It’s always something. She has a crisis every single time we’re in the same room for more than an hour. Last week, her car battery died. The week before, she had a nightmare and needed you to talk her down at midnight. I am so goddamn tired, Keene.”

I raked a hand through my hair. “She’s my childhood friend. You know that. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

“She doesn’t have anyone else because she makes sure no woman wants to be near her, and every man she orbits is too fucking dense to see she’s not being friendly—she’s marking territory.” Her voice cracked. “I’m the one you’re marrying. Me. Not her. But every time I think I finally have you to myself, she yanks the leash.”

That word—leash—hit something raw. My jaw tightened.

“That’s not fair.”

“None of this is fair!” She laughed, bitter and broken. “Do you know how humiliating it is? I’m a fucking artist. I’ve got galleries waiting on me. I took a hiatus—for us, for the wedding—and I sit here while you run off to hold Amanda’s hand because some guy didn’t buy her a drink.”

The phone buzzed again. Amanda: “Keene? I’m scared.”

I stared at it. Then at the woman I’d loved since we were stupid college kids sharing a dorm closet. She was shaking now—not cold. Angry. Hurt. The same fight, different night.

“It’s fifteen minutes,” I said, quieter. “I’ll get her an Uber, tell her to knock it off, and I’m back. We finish the movie. We finish what we started.” I tried for a half-smile. It didn’t land.