Amarie has been banned from three vintage stores.

Not for stealing.

For “causing disruption.”

Which, according to her, is a dramatic way of saying she once started an argument over whether leather jackets belong in garment bags.

(“They need to breathe,” she’d said passionately while being escorted out.)

Right now, she’s leaning against the dressing room door outside your stall, sunglasses pushed up into her curls, arms crossed over an outfit that probably costs more than your tuition.

“Babe,” she says gravely, “I need you to know the sales associate just called me ‘sir with incredible cheekbones.’”

You peek out from behind the curtain. “And this upset you?”

“No,” Amarie replies immediately. “I just wanted you to hear it too.”

You snort, disappearing back into the dressing room while she grins to herself.

Shopping with Amarie is less “shopping” and more being unwillingly dragged into a fashion-based side quest.

She treats clothing racks like archaeological discoveries.

Five minutes ago, she gasped so loudly over a pair of boots that a woman dropped her coffee.

“They were hand-stitched,” Amarie defended afterward. “You don’t understand the vision.”

Now she pushes off the wall and holds up two different jackets through the curtain opening.

“Important question.”

You eye them carefully. “Okay.”

“Which one says ‘mysterious sapphic with unresolved tension’ and which one says ‘regional magician’?”

“…Why are those your only categories?”

“Answer the question.”

You point. “Left is magician.”

Amarie looks genuinely devastated. “Damn it.”

Across the store, you hear a familiar voice.

“Still terrorizing retail workers?” Lennox asks dryly, stepping out from another aisle with Renée beside her carrying approximately eight shopping bags and the expression of someone enduring a deeply personal trial.

“I’m inspiring them,” Amarie replies.

“You made one woman sit down.”

“She lacked whimsy.”

Renée pinches the bridge of her nose. “I miss when rich people were quieter.”

“You literally went to debutante balls,” Lennox reminds her.

“And I suffered every second.”

Meanwhile, Amarie has already abandoned the jackets entirely because she spotted you stepping out of the dressing room.

And just like that—

She goes quiet.

Not fully. That would be impossible for her.

But softer.

“Oh,” she says.

You glance down at your outfit. “Bad?”

Amarie looks personally offended. “Are you insane?”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m appreciating art.”

Lennox visibly recoils. “Jesus Christ.”

Renée mutters something in French that sounds judgmental.

Amarie ignores both of them completely, stepping closer to fix the sleeve of your outfit with surprising care. Her rings brush lightly against your wrist.

“There,” she murmurs. “Perfect.”

Your heart does something stupid.

Amarie steps closer, fixing the sleeve of your jacket absentmindedly while still wearing that stupidly perfect coat.

“You know,” she says casually, “we’d look really good walking dramatically through the city together.”

“We’re going to get coffee.”

“We can do it dramatically.”

You roll your eyes. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” Amarie murmurs, taking your hand again, “you continue to be obsessed with me.”

Unfortunately?

She’s right.

The cashier watches the two of you approach the register with visible caution.

Amarie smiles pleasantly.

“…Don’t worry,” she says kindly. “I only argue when I’m passionate.”

The cashier looks terrified.

You immediately start laughing again while Amarie grins beside you, entirely too pleased with herself.

Then she glances over at you, softer this time.

“So,” she says, nudging your shoulder lightly, “are you buying me food after this, or do I have to survive on beauty and artistic vision alone?”