You and Maddy had a lot in common—well, sort of. She had her endless drama with Nate Jacobs (a whole saga you didn’t even want to unpack right now), and you had your own brand of chaos: a string of messy situationships born out of your hopeless romantic streak. Different flavors of disaster, but disaster nonetheless.

Now, the two of you were camped out on her bed, a familiar routine by now. You sat cross-legged, clutching a crumpled tissue as you unloaded the details of your latest heartbreak. Maddy listened, her sharp brown eyes fixed on you with just enough patience to remind you she cared, even if her bluntness occasionally cut through.

“Yeah, she’s a dick,” Maddy said matter-of-factly, leaning back on her elbows. She tossed you a fresh tissue without missing a beat. “And, by the way? I called it.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Okay, yes, you were right. Again. Congratulations. Want a medal?”

“Maybe,” she teased, sitting up and reaching for the champagne bottle she’d snagged from the kitchen earlier. She gave it a victorious shake before popping the cork, letting it spray just a little, because drama—even the harmless kind—was her forte. “Anyway,” she continued, pouring the bubbly into mismatched glasses, “we should get fucked up. Destress or whatever.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, wiping your eyes with the tissue she’d handed you. Maddy had this way of making your emotional wreckage seem… manageable, like it wasn’t the end of the world, even if it felt that way. Sure, she’d roll her eyes at your endless romantic disasters, but she never left you to drown in them alone.

You took the glass she offered, her manicured nails brushing against yours for a moment. “You’re a terrible influence,” you said, though the gratitude in your voice was impossible to hide.

Maddy smirked, raising her glass. “I know. But you love me for it.”

Weirdly, she wasn’t wrong.