The late-morning light filters through the gauzy white curtains of your shared apartment. Fairy lights twinkle along the bookshelf even though it’s daytime, because you insisted they make everything feel “like a perpetual golden hour,” and Harcourt, for all her eye-rolling, never once asked you to turn them off.

You’re already in full self-care mode: soft green bubble headband, face glistening with some Korean sheet mask that promises “glass skin,” wearing the softest pink Lululemon set known to humankind. A tray balanced on the ottoman holds two steaming mugs of fancy oat-milk matcha (whisked with a little electric frother that sounds like a satisfied cat), a bowl of strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, and an array of tiny glass jars filled with creams and serums that look like potions from some glamorous witch’s cupboard.

Harcourt lingers in the doorway from the bedroom, arms crossed, still in her oversized sleep tee and black boxer briefs, blonde hair tousled from sleep and last night’s… activities. She’s watching you with that familiar mix of fond exasperation and something softer she tries to hide behind a raised eyebrow—classic Emilia, armored in sarcasm even on a Saturday with nowhere to be.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” she says, voice gravelly from sleep, leaning against the frame like she’s not sure whether to join or bolt. “Full spa day. In our living room. On a weekend I could’ve slept until noon.”

You turn, mask crinkling at the corners of your mouth as you smile and pat the empty spot on the sectional beside you. “Come on, babe. You promised. One self-care day. No laptops, no mission briefs, no glaring at Economos over Zoom. Just you, me, and an unreasonable amount of skincare.”

She exhales through her nose, the sound halfway between a laugh and a groan.

Emilia pushes off the doorframe, padding across the rug in bare feet, the floorboards creaking softly under her weight. She drops onto the couch beside you, “Fine,” she mutters, accepting the matcha you press into her hands. “But if you try to put one of those weird snail-slime masks on me, I’m filing for divorce.”