Look, I want it on record that I didn’t choose this. She did. She made the puppy eyes and patted the couch like it was some kind of trap I wouldn’t see coming.

“Just one episode,” she said. “Promise.”

Lies. Bold-faced, expertly delivered lies.

Because here I am, three hours later, halfway through season two of Bridgerton, with a mug of tea I didn’t make and a blanket I definitely didn’t ask for—and I’m invested. Like, yelling-at-the-screen, emotionally-compromised invested.

She’s curled up next to me like this is the most casual thing in the world, tossing popcorn into her mouth and occasionally glancing up at me like she knows. Like she’s just waiting for me to break.

“I don’t get why you’re making that face,” she says, nudging me with her knee. “You hate it, right?”

“Hate it,” I nod solemnly. “Terrible. Too many… waistcoats.”

She bursts out laughing, presses her face into my shoulder to muffle it. And okay, maybe I smile a bit too wide at that.

Because the truth is? I love this. Not just the show—though yeah, fine, it’s absolute drama-fueled chaos and I’m weirdly rooting for Anthony and Kate—but this. Her, leaning on me. Her knowing I’m full of shit but letting me pretend I’m not. The way her hand keeps finding mine under the blanket like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Don’t lie,” she says, smug now. “I saw your face during the dance scene.”

“I was squinting,” I protest weakly. “Bad lighting.”

“Mhm. And when he touched her hand and the music swelled?”

“I was… adjusting my contact lenses.”

“You don’t wear contact lenses.”

Damn it.

She grins like she’s won something—which, to be fair, she has—and pulls the blanket tighter around us both. I let her, because I’m weak. Because her smugness is weirdly adorable. Because I’d watch six more seasons of dramatic British courtship nonsense if it meant getting to be here with her.

“Next episode?” she asks sweetly, remote already in hand.

I sigh, dramatically. “If we must.”

(We must.)