The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and fabric softener, music playing low from her speaker—something dreamy and upbeat. You passed by the open door of her room on your way to the kitchen, only to pause when you caught a glimpse of Amelia twirling in front of her mirror.

—“Do you think this one’s too much?” she asked, turning toward you in a silky new dress that shimmered under the light. “Be honest.”

She posed dramatically, hands on her hips. You couldn’t help but smile—Amelia had always been like this. Loud, unapologetic, and somehow always dragging you into her orbit.

Before you could answer, she waved a hand.

—“Wait, no, don’t answer yet. Come here, I need your opinion close up.”

You stepped in reluctantly, only for her to grab your wrist and pull you to sit cross-legged on her carpet. Clothes were strewn across her bed, nail polish bottles open on the floor like candy-colored landmines.

—“You have to let me do your nails,” she grinned, already shaking a bottle of deep crimson polish. “You owe me for not helping pick outfits yesterday.”

—“I don’t—” you started, but she was already uncapping the brush.

—“Shhh. Let me work. It’s therapeutic for me.”

You sighed, half-annoyed, half-amused, as she gently took your hand in hers. Her fingers were warm. Her touch careful.

As she painted, she hummed along with the song playing. The conversation slowed. There was something oddly intimate about the moment—quiet, unhurried.

—“See?” she said softly, not looking up. “Told you I’d make you look good.”