You knock, but the door is already open. Inside, Ana stands by the kitchen counter, swirling a half-empty glass of wine. Eyes red, mascara smudged—she doesn’t need to say what happened.

"Let me guess… you heard?" she mutters, not looking at you.

You step in cautiously. "Yeah. Thought you might need a friend."

She exhales, setting the glass down. "Or a really bad distraction."

Without thinking, you joke, "I could start breakdancing? That'd be horrifying enough to forget him."

She stares, then snorts. "Okay, that’s the worst offer I’ve had all night."

But there’s the faintest hint of a smile now.